The Dope that we Smoke
by Disneymagic
Summary: Sam and Dean are hunting a supernatural creature in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. Unfortunately for Sam there's more than just the supernatural danger to be concerned about. hurt/delirious!Sam heroic/hurt!Dean *NOW COMPLETE*
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. *Boo Hoo* Now look what you've done.**

**A/N1: This story takes place during the middle of Season 1 and is a prequel to Consumed Memories, but both stories can stand alone.**

**The name of this story and the chapter titles come from the lyrics to the song Mudhouse by Jason Mraz. Don't worry, the name will make more sense in future chapters.**

**The Dope that we Smoke**

**by Disneymagic**

**Chapter 1 Was Grown on my Land**

It's raining.

It's raining and isn't that just fucking great. The droplets collect on the leaves above them and cascade in mini waterfalls whenever the wind blows or the burden on the leaves becomes too great for the leaves to contain. Raindrops dribble out of his hair and down his back, even with his jacket collar turned up.

There are many kinds of rain in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. There's the light mist of early morning, the steady rain during the afternoons, and the deluge in the evenings and late at night. Not that Dean's keeping track or anything.

This is their third day traipsing around out in the woods searching for the Blink Bear. Three days of wet, miserable rain in all its varieties and he's sick to death of it. The Blink Bear is one crafty sonofabitch and although the town gossips can't stop talking about the unusual bear sightings and the string of missing persons reports, Dean and Sam have been up and down the myriad trails through the surrounding area with exactly nothing to show for their trouble.

But they aren't camping, oh no, they aren't camping. They're hiking...through the woods...in the rain. As far as Dean can figure out, hiking is camping, just without the tent.

The Smokies in Autumn are cool during the day, requiring only a jacket to make the temperature bearable. In the evening, once the sun goes down, temperatures can plummet into heavy coat territory. They've been lucky so far. If not for the rain, they would've been down right comfortable.

The rain is making Dean cranky and there's no one around to take it out on except Sam. He doesn't want to take it out on Sam, but it's out of his control really, nothing he can do about it. He picks up his pace, stretching his legs to their limit, trying to put a little distance between himself and his geeky little brother. It doesn't work, Sam matches his long strides with ease and that just pisses Dean off even more.

"Jeez Sam, back off, give me a little room. You're breathing up all the air."

Sam slows down, huffs his displeasure, and scuffs his shoes through the muddy dirt on the trail.

He should just stop there or better yet apologize, but his clothes are soaked through and it's just chilly enough up on this mountain to make his hands ache. He can't keep himself from barking, "I think you took us in the wrong direction again, Sam. Maybe you need some more time with the maps back at the motel room. At least then we could be out of this stinking rain for a couple of seconds."

"It's a rain forest, Dean, of course it's raining. And I checked the maps this morning. We're walking within a two mile radius of where the last hikers reportedly went missing."

Dean sighs, feeling guilty, wipes a hand wearily across his face. He's being stupid. It's not Sam's fault that it's raining, or that the damn Blink Bear is a no show, or that their Dad is ignoring them.

And yeah, it's more than just the rain that has him in such a bad mood. He misses their Dad with a yearning that's hard for him to describe, even to himself. The family ties that bind also cut like the lash of a whip, apparently. Dean values little in his life, but those things he values hold him hostage with their impossible importance.

The worst part is that they are much more important to him than he is to them. He's known it all his life, has had it shoved in his face more than once. It never gets any easier to take.

In a fit of temper that surprises even himself, Dean steps off the trail to the nearest tree, a medium sized buckeye tree, and kicks the trunk with the toe of his boot. An avalanche of water pours off the leaves above him and into his mouth, nose, ears, everywhere, and he splutters a curse.

He hears a snort quickly transformed into a cough behind him. Sam. He thinks about taking a swing at Sam because its not funny. He thinks about telling Sam to 'fuck off'. Then he goes in the opposite direction.

"Laugh it up, fuzzball." Dean says in his best imitation of Han Solo's gravelly voice. Apology offered.

And Sam...laughs...a low chortle that soothes like balm on an open wound, taking him back to shared childhood jokes and warm affection easily given. Apology accepted. Something dark and malignant releases its hold from deep inside him as he watches the dimples make an appearance on his little brother's face.

God, how he loves that kid.

He doesn't tell Sam that though, not in so many words. There are other ways.

"So, we're ready if this Blink Bear decides to teleport in here, right? You have your syringe of anti-venom stashed in your backpack?" Dean questions even though he already knows the answer.

"Yeah, I have mine, do you have yours?" Sam quirks an eyebrow in response.

Dean gives him a nod and pats the side of his pack for good measure.

They've got a good idea about what it is they're dealing with on this hunt. The first hand accounts leave little to the imagination if you know what you're looking for. A creature, easily mistaken for a bear, which suddenly appears out of nowhere, mauls its victim, and disappears just as quickly, unfortunate victim in tow. Traumatized observers don't notice the long, decidedly un-bear-like, tail tapering to a wicked point. Either that or they dismiss it as soon as it registers. Their Dad had faced a similar creature and it was well documented in his journal.

"Blink Bear." Dean shakes his head in exaggerated disbelief. "What kind of name is that for a savage, supernatural creature with a poisonous stinger for a tail? It sounds more like a cuddly friggin' stuffed animal."

The venom the Blink Bear can inject with its tail isn't painful or deadly. It acts as a sedative of sorts, making the victim complacent about his or her fate, lethargic and content to wait around in the Blink Bear's lair until the creature is ready to dine. The venom is also mildly hallucinogenic.

"Yeah, the name is deceiving, but it's meant to give warning about the creature's ability to teleport." Sam takes his backpack off, twisting to get the kinks out of his shoulders and neck.

The backpacks they each carry are heavy, stuffed nearly to overflowing with survival gear including bottled water, high energy snacks, rope, flashlights, and space blankets. They go back to the motel every evening to sleep, but experience has taught them to be prepared for the worst possible scenario. In addition to the normal hiking paraphernalia, they also carry the tools of their trade; salt, lighter fluid, waterproof matches, and holy water. Then there are the weapons.

Blink Bears have preternaturally thick hides, impenetrable by bullets or arrows. Their only vulnerable spot is their eyes. A knife jab through the eye and into the brain will do the trick. For that matter, a bullet or arrow through the eye works just as well, but the eye makes a small target and the chance of making the kill using a gun or a bow is a slim one at best. For that reason they each carry a long knife at the ready with a pistol tucked in the waistband of their jeans, just in case. You never know what you might run into while hunting for Blink Bears.

Dean, taking his cue from Sam, pulls his backpack off and sets it on the ground at his feet. With a groan, he rotates his shoulders until he hears them pop.

"Listen to you creak, old man." Sam taunts with easy familiarity.

"Yeah well, you should respect your elders." Dean quips, enjoying the banter and feeling like he's come home. "What's for lunch today."

Sam takes a moment to open his pack before answering. "BLT's on toast." He pulls out two sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, hands one to Dean and then unwraps the other for himself.

"Mmmmm, good choice." Dean manages to comment around a mouthful of sandwich.

They eat standing up as it's too wet to sit anywhere. Sam's shaggy hair is plastered to his head except for in the front where it sticks up from when he pushed it out of his eyes.

Dean leans against his friend, the buckeye tree, and chuckles. "Dude, you look like a drowned rat."

"Right back at ya." Sam absently retorts while pulling a bottle of water from his pack.

"You got these sandwiches from the deli this morning, right?" A mischievous glint lights Dean's eyes even as he stuffs another huge bite of sandwich into his mouth.

"Yup." Sam eats quickly also, shielding his sandwich from the rain as much as possible.

Sometimes, when things are really clicking, Dean feels like their verbal sparing is like a game of tennis, the banter flowing back and forth across the intervening space smoothly, effortlessly.

"Was that cute waitress there...Cathy?" Dean serves the ball.

"Yeah, she said to tell you 'hi'." Sam returns it with a nice chip shot.

"Right, I don't think so. She's totally into you, dude. Can't keep her eyes off you." Dean goes in for the kill.

"Whatever, man." The defensive lob enables Sam to wriggle out of the trap.

"So, we've been all over these paths where hikers have gone missing and the Blink Bear isn't taking the bait. Maybe we should go after its lair instead. Where do you think it'll be?" Dean's mind reverts back to the hunt with the absence of anything further to tease his little brother with.

"Could be anywhere really. It doesn't even have to be near here. It's using this area as its hunting grounds, but its lair could be miles away."

"That Blink Bear Dad killed in Montana hunted close to its cave. He didn't have any trouble finding it."

"I know, but that doesn't mean this one's the same." Sam looks over, amused. "Remember what he wrote in his journal, 'The razor-sharp claws coupled with snapping jaws make the Blink Bear a nasty piece of work.'" Sam singsongs to an off-beat cadence just before taking a swig of water.

"Heh, Dad's an aspiring poet." Dean verbally backhands the ball to Sam's court.

The idea of their father waxing poetic about anything, especially a Blink Bear, makes Sam draw in an involuntary breath to laugh at the same time he tries to swallow his mouthful of water. The resulting coughing, choking, and wheezing has Dean at his side, patting him on the back, one hand against his chest to keep him upright.

"You are such a dork." Dean fondly announces.

The only reply Sam can make is to push his shoulder into Dean's sternum in an attempt to knock him off balance, which fails miserably due to the continued hacking.

Once Sam catches his breath, Dean steps back to his pack to get his own bottle of water. He unscrews the cap and drinks deeply. When he returns the bottle to his pack, the syringe containing the antidote to Blink Bear venom draws his attention.

"Looks like we may have wasted our time making this antidote." Dean gestures towards the syringe.

The recipe had been in their Dad's journal along with the description of his encounter with one of the beasts. Where he had found the recipe, they didn't have a clue. He had his sources though and they were usually pretty reliable.

"Maybe. I hope we don't need it, but it makes me feel better to know we have it with us." Sam finishes the last of his sandwich and water, closes up his pack, and gets ready to continue the search.

"I suppose." Shaking a collection of water droplets from his hair, Dean moves out to match Sam's pace.

They walk along, side by side. The camaraderie loosens the band around his chest instead of tightening and constricting as it had earlier. Dean breaths deeply, soaks in Sam's presence and allows the remaining knot of tension to dissolve.

"How about we finish this trail, take it all the way down to the river and then head back to the trail head where we left the car. It'll take us a couple of hours to get back from there and then we can head to the motel. Call it a day and dry off. This rain is pretty miserable." Sam offers.

The motel where they're staying, Magnolia Springs Inn, is the only one in the little town of Cosby, Tennessee. Dean winces every time he sees the sign proclaiming the name of the place, much too girly for his tastes.

"Works for me. Maybe we can scout out a likely place for its den and search there tomorrow." Dean swings his knife through a fern frond protruding onto the trail.

"These Blink Bears, the one Dad killed in Montana and now this one, where do you think they come from? They aren't naturally occurring animals, obviously. I'd say we should be looking into local legends except they're too far apart." The gears in his mind are turning already as Sam works on the question of where to find the lair.

"I don't know, Sam. Could be someone is summoning them." Dean feels Sam tense beside him at the same time the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

The Blink Bear isn't there...and then it is. No sound announces its arrival, just the minute change in air pressure that causes Dean's flesh to ripple unpleasantly. At first sight of the creature, Sam and Dean both shrug out of their backpacks, leaving themselves unencumbered for the coming conflict.

The creature does indeed look a lot like a bear, a very angry, very ferocious bear. It's dark brown fur shimmers although little sunlight filters down through the cloud cover and the leaves above them. Mouth open wide to showcase teeth glistening with saliva, the Blink Bear charges Sam, making full use of the element of surprise.

As if the fight is choreographed, Sam steps to the side and Dean steps forward in perfect unison. Dean's knife extends from his hand like its part of him, his grip sure and natural.

Apparently the Blink Bear doesn't like this reception. It must prefer it's victims unarmed and cowering, because it stops advancing to glare at the knives both hunters brandish.

The damn thing is still too far away for Dean to risk a head-on attack, but he doesn't like the way it's watching Sam. "Come on over here, Blinky. You don't mind if I call you Blinky, do you?" Dean taunts as he continues to move forward in a battle-ready crouch, trying to pull its attention away from Sam.

"Careful, Dean." Sam hisses through clenched teeth.

The warning registers as the concern that it is and Dean's lips curve up in a tight smile. Hunting with Sam and hunting with Dad both bring out his basic protective instincts, but his actions are received in completely different ways. Where Dad would take advantage of the distraction Dean poses to rush in heedless of the danger to Dean or himself until after the fight was over, Sam hangs back to analyze until he finds the right opportunity for a successful move with the best chance for minimal injuries.

That's not to say that Sam can't act on instinct or that he doesn't storm in if he sees Dean in immediate danger, just that his tendencies ran more toward caution and care.

Dean trusts his Dad to get him out of a bad situation, he trusts Sam not to put him in one to begin with.

Blinky snarls at Dean, low and guttural, more like a wildcat than a fucking bear. Then it turns to circle around Sam's left, head swinging from side to side. Dean gets a good look at the creature's wickedly pointed tail as it turns it's back on him to focus on Sam.

Oh, hell no! That is so not going to happen.

Sam pivots gracefully in one spot, never taking his eyes off Blinky's menacing form, obviously gauging distance and momentum. He is now between the creature and Dean, a position that makes Dean's throat close uneasily.

Long strings of saliva fall from Blinky's open jaws, glistening on it's lips and gums, making it's teeth shine even more evilly. It hasn't teleported since it arrived nearby, apparently preferring to use it's teleporting ability for longer distances only and not for purposes of relocating during an attack. Probably it normally doesn't face much opposition and isn't used to an extended fight.

Dean swings to Sam's right, planning a frontal attack once he gets to the salivating creature. Blinky is distracted by Sam who, seeing Dean's direction and guessing his intention, darts his knife toward the supernatural beast to keep its attention away from Dean's movement.

Although he fucking hates for his little brother to play bait, no matter how grown up he's gotten, Dean realizes that Sam's distraction is working. This may be his best chance to get close enough to put his knife right through the sonofabitch's eye. As quietly as possible with the leaves and branches underfoot, Dean edges closer, coming up from a little bit behind and to the side, hopefully in the creature's blind spot.

The Blink Bear rears up before lunging and swiping a paw towards Sam's knife arm. Sam easily deflects and attempts a lunge of his own. He has a long reach, but even he is unable to get past the wickedly slashing claws.

With a screeching growl of frustration, Blinky backs up suddenly, right into Dean, who isn't expecting the change in direction. The massive bulk of the creature throws him off balance causing him to collide heavily with a nearby pine. The impact and Dean's resulting grunt both serve to draw Blinky's undivided attention as it senses incapacitated prey.

"That's right, come and get me." Dean wheezes.

His breath temporarily knocked out of him, Dean backs up to give himself time to recover. The Blink Bear follows him, eyes flashing in anticipation. He doesn't get far before his back is once again pressed into the unyielding bark of a tree. His only hope is to go on the offensive. Using the tree behind him, Dean pushes off and hurtles forward with his knife extended straight towards Blinky's eyes.

Unfortunately, the beast is deceptively fast. Before Dean reaches his target, Blinky intercepts his forward momentum with the swipe of a deadly paw. Maybe its just playing with him or maybe it doesn't like for it's prey to bleed out. Whatever the reason, the creature doesn't use its claws on him, content instead to simply send him careening into another fucking tree. This time he hits shoulder first and falls to the forest floor dazed by the shooting pain.

"No! Dean!" Sam yells.

Dean hears his brother's angry shout through the ringing in his ears. Despite the circumstances he's amused that Sam sounds angry. 'You're in for it now, Blinky' he thinks hazily.

The unmistakable sound of gunfire rings out and Dean knows that Sam must have decided to take a chance on a random bullet hit through the eye. He begins the laborious process of obtaining vertical, but freezes when he hears a popping almost metallic ping and feels a bullet slice the air in front of his face. Sam's got decent aim, so there's no way a bullet should be getting that close to him. Ricochet...the bullets are ricoheting off the armor-like hide of the Blink Bear. Sam must come to the same conclusion because the gunfire stops.

He's almost regained his feet when he feels a prick in his side. Turning to face the source of this newest threat, Dean watches wide-eyed as the Blink Bear extracts the tip of it's tail from his flesh.

Apathy washes over him, the ground welcomes him back, soft like a lover's embrace.

Dean drifts...

Nothing much matters.

The wet leaves cradle his head, his body. They rustle soggily with every inhale, every exhale. One particular leaf presses against his cheek, scratching his face with its hard stem.

Nothing much matters.

Dean blinks lazily, watches as the raindrops pelt down on the dirt, the small ferns, and the moss. A centipede crawls out from under a stone, marches along a twig four inches from his face before hiding under a carpet of leaves. All this he sees without lifting or even turning his head.

Nothing much matters.

His shoulder throbs to the same beat as his heart. He feels the pain as a distant ache, real, but not his, not belonging to him. The wet ground is cold, the breeze chilling, and his damp clothes provide little protection from the discomfort.

Nothing much matters.

Thoughts, slow like molasses running uphill, go nowhere. They swirl and twist in random circles.

Nothing much matters.

He hears voices. His Dad's voice. Sam's voice. Dad sounds angry, yelling at him to 'get on your feet, boy' and 'that's an order, son'. Sam sounds worried, begging him to 'get up Dean, you have to get up'.

Dad matters. Sam matters.

Dean tries to sit up, but everything is heavy, so very heavy. He wonders what can be so important that it's worth the exertion it takes for him to lift his head up off the ground. That's right, Dad and Sam are calling him. With monumental effort, he pushes the lead weight of one arm underneath his upper body and pushes until his can swing his head on his wobbly neck. Dad's not there. Sam's not there. It's a relief to realize no one wants him to do anything after all. He lets his head drop back to the bed of leaves, lets his eyes close.

Dean drifts...

Time passes, he's not sure how much. Behind his closed eyelids he sees the forest spread out before him like a 3-D high definition map. He sees where his body sprawls still and lifeless. Then the map is moving, shifting to the southeast. His view zooms in and he sees a rocky outcropping with an opening cut in the side.

Blinky is there, nudging something with its nose. Another disorienting swoop and the scene magnifies. Sam's form lies motionless in a disconcertingly similar pose to his own. As Blinky nuzzles Sam roughly, his body flops over onto his side where he remains unmoving. Dean can see blood, dark and glistening, on the denim fabric of his ripped jeans.

Blinky has Sam! Sam is hurt!

Adrenaline courses through him, counteracting the debilitating effect of the venom just enough for him to pull himself into a sitting position. Pushing away the lethargy, Dean casts his gaze around the undergrowth of plant life until he finds his backpack. The sun has set and the moon risen. By the feeble light of the half moon he finds what he's looking for. Both packs lie about 300 yards to his left, an eternity away.

His legs feel like they're made of jello. Cutting a zig-zagging and staggering path, Dean reaches his backpack and drops to the ground next to it in relief. Trembling fingers grope inside until they come in contact with the smooth plastic of the syringe. He's never had occasion to inject himself with anything, but he has had to inject both his brother and his Dad with high grade pain medication from time to time. Point being that he knows what he needs to do and it doesn't take him long to pull the cap off, find a vein in the soft skin of his inside elbow, and stick the needle home with a quick jab.

The antidote works in a surprisingly short amount of time. He still feels fuzzy, but his arms and legs are all operational. The pain in this shoulder is down to a dull ache, so not dislocated, just bruised. The lethargy backs off from deadening to merely dragging.

"Sam!" Dean calls. "Sam! Sammy!" Each call becomes increasingly desperate.

Sam is nowhere nearby as the silence following each of his cries testifies. The cell phones are useless out here in the foest mountains. It might have been a hallucination borne of the Blink Bear venom, but the...vision?...is the only clue he has to Sam's location. He tamps the rising panic down to a manageable level with sheer will power. Panic isn't going to help Sam.

Gathering both backpacks, Sam's gun which he finds on the ground near where he last saw Sam, and both knives, Dean faces southeast and sets out.

To be continued.

**A/N: I'm trying out writing in the present tense. It's new to me, so please let me know what you think. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. *Boo Hoo* Now look what you've done.**

**A/N: Yay, nice response to the first chapter. Very uplifting, thank you all. So, on with the show.**

**The Dope that we Smoke**

**by Disneymagic**

**Chapter 2 I Ain't Got Nobody, Baby**

It's raining.

It's raining with a vengeance, heavy curtains of water crashing to earth from the heavens. He sees the deluge from the relatively dry interior of a cave, watches the forest beyond the cave opening as if through a thick veil. Raindrops splatter upon the floor of the cave entrance in such huge quantities and with such force that they create a fine mist. The mist swirls further into the cave, coating his skin, his eyelashes, his clothing, everything with a layer of moisture.

Sam lays on the cave floor and remembers the events of the day. Utterly detached, like watching a movie with actors playing the starring roles of 'Sam' and 'Dean', he recalls the morning hike through the woods in the rain, Dean's growing irritation, and the moment when Dean's mood reversed. The change had been instantaneous, from full blown anger to joking good humor. Sam knows the change had been for his benefit. Tentacles of emotion seep through his mind, pushing back at the numb indifference. He wishes Dean were here.

Why isn't Dean here?

Fur tickles his ear, the side of his face. Something blunt nudges his shoulder causing him to roll unceremoniously onto his stomach. The Blink Bear's fur, it's nose. Sam hears a snuffling, snorting noise as the creature investigates his legs. There's a dull ache that sharpens momentarily when the beast's nose presses into a spot on his right shin.

"Go 'way, Blinky." Sam mumbles into the stone and dirt of the cave floor.

Blinky, the taunting nick name his brother had come up with for the slavering creature. Sam's mouth twitches up in a slight smile, but it fades when he recollects his brother's slumped form after Blinky's attack. He remembers watching the creature throw Dean into a tree, pulling his gun to try and shoot the thing in the eye only to discover that the bullets were ricocheting all around Dean, dropping his gun and running forward with his knife, too late to stop the sting of the Blink Bear's tail into his brother's side.

The apathy recedes. His stomach clenches unpleasantly. Dean isn't here. Why isn't Dean here? The idea of his older brother out in the deluge, injured and helpless affects Sam in a way his own plight does not.

He struggles weakly, trying to pull his arms out from under his torso, trying to push up into a sitting position. A huge paw lands roughly on his back, keeping him in place. The air whooshes out of his lungs.

"Nuh uh, Blinky. Not now. I don' have time for this." Sam mutters once he can breath again.

But the Blink Bear doesn't relent and Sam recalls his own experience with the tail end of the beast. He remembers how he had been distracted by Dean's collapse, how he had turned away from the creature to look for the backpacks and the antidote, how it had only taken that one second of distraction for the sonofabitch to reach him and rake it's claws down the lower part of his right leg. He remembers clutching his knife and swinging it around towards the creature's face, the despair of being knocked backwards before he could reach his goal, and the prick of the tail as it had entered his thigh. He recalls falling into nothing and resurfacing in the cave.

With the creature's paw on his back, Sam isn't going anywhere. Hazily he stares at the cave wall. The stone melts and changes color, from gray to green to blue to purple...The mesmerizing hallucination pulls him in and scatters his already diffuse thoughts.

Sam drifts...

When he comes back to himself he's alone in the cave. The drooling, fearsome beast is gone. The whole thing might have been a dream except...he's alone in the cave...no Dean. His fuzzy mind works on the answer to why he's here by himself.

Dean would have found him by now if he was at all able. Sam recognizes that his brother is compelled to watch over him, keep him safe. He knows that he's spoiled by it, counts on it, takes it for granted. His big brother's devotion smothers him, yet allows him the freedom of knowing he's always protected. No matter what, he never doubts Dean's single-minded determination to take care of him. The fact that his overly protective brother has failed to make an appearance is proof in Sam's somewhat compromised mind that Dean must be in just as bad shape as he is or even worse.

The Blink Bear being gone could mean several things including that it's off retrieving Dean from their last location, possibly doing more damage to his already injured brother in the process. Since it left him alive and in one piece, it either has some urgent business elsewhere or isn't hungry yet, saving him for a midnight snack maybe.

Shifting around so he can see the mouth of the cave again, Sam notices that the rain has tapered off to a drizzle. His body protests any and all forms of movement, argues the pros of remaining stationary, and threatens to go on strike at the first signs of any attempt to get up. He ignores the mutiny and rolls the rest of the way onto his side where he begins the exacting task of pushing up to sitting. From there it's smooth sailing to standing until his right leg refuses to hold his weight.

Further investigation reveals the bloody shredded jeans and the sliced skin underneath. The claw marks are no longer bleeding and they don't hurt, but his right leg feels like flimsy rubber. Sam closes his eyes and leans against the wall of the cave when a bout of dizziness catches up with him.

Slow and steady wins the race, he thinks bemusedly, or maybe just slow. He quirks a smile at his own joke given that 'steady' is miles beyond him. He's finding it difficult to stay upright, what with the dancing lights attaching themselves to his arms, his shoulders, his back. They twinkle alluringly as they try to drag him back down, begging him to stay.

But Sam won't be persuaded, he swishes his hands through the air in front of himself to clear a twinkly-light-free path toward the cave exit. Dean needs him. He's going to find Dean.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

As if the fucking creature can sense when Dean is no longer under the influence of it's venom, the Blink Bear miraculously appears ten feet away from him once he begins his brother-bound trek. The surrounding gloom of forest night and the penetrating rain reduce visibility to near zero, but Dean is alerted to the monster's arrival by the now recognizable change in air pressure. Swinging his flashlight in a 360 degree arc reveals glowing topaz eyes and white glinting teeth.

A welcoming smile lights his face. "Ah, Blinky, I'm so glad to see you."

And it's true. After all, if the beast is here with him, it's not messing with his little brother. Dean's smile morphs into a feral grin and the remaining effects of his bout with the Blink Bear venom vanish with the surge of adrenaline.

Within moments, he sheds the packs, drops his flashlight, grasps his knife in an offensive grip, and crouches low. The flashlight sends a beam of light off to his left, but does little to illuminate the immediate area. Never taking his narrowed eyes off his opponent, Dean shifts effortlessly from foot to foot, waiting patiently for an opening. This time he'll let the beast come to him. He sets himself up in an empty space, gives himself plenty of room to maneuver. The bulk of the creature works to its advantage among the close quarters of the trees, but out in the open, Dean's combat skills give him the upper hand.

Now that he's seen the monster's attack moves and knows what to expect, Dean is supremely confident in his ability to defeat the sonofabitch. Confidence fuels his graceful movements as he eases himself into attack stance.

Blinky snorts in irritation, lowers it's head like a bull getting ready to charge, but remains rooted to the spot of it's arrival.

"What's the matter, Blinky? Having a hard time figuring out why I'm not still lying around waiting for you to get hungry?" Dean doesn't know the extent of the creature's intelligence, but he enjoys mocking it nonetheless.

The taunt has the desired effect. Blinky whips it's head left and right angrily and closes the distance between them with a rolling gait, not as fast as a dead run and not as slow as a trot.

Standing his ground, Dean balances lightly on the balls of his feet. His knife point follows the agitated beast's every move, never veering from the glittering topaz eyes.

The Blink Bear hasn't learned any new strategies since their last encounter. A spine-tingling growl accompanies the set of claws aimed at Dean's right leg. Dean jumps out of the way and lands a roundhouse kick to the creature's muzzle. The satisfying crunch sends a jolt of pleasure up Dean's spine. He's totally in the zone now, senses on high alert, nerve endings tingling.

With a grunt of pain, Blinky lowers it's wounded muzzle to the ground and paws ineffectively at it. Not so intelligent then. A slash and a forward thrust of the knife and the whole thing is over, Blinky lying dead at Dean's feet.

Just to be sure, Dean salts and burns the corpse, using plenty of lighter fluid to keep the fire burning through the rain, which is just starting to slack off. As far as he knows, the creature can't come back to life, but you can never be too careful in his line of work.

Despite the stench emanating from the burning beast and the temporary nature of the reprieve, Dean allows the heat from the fire to seep past his sodden clothing to warm his clammy skin. As soon as the monster is reduced to a charred lump, thoughts of Sam, wet, alone and suffering, provoke him to gather his gear and continue his search for the cave in his hallucination.

Hiking through the woods at night is a totally different proposition from hiking through the woods during the day, especially once you step off the trail to walk in as straight a line as is feasible. Even with the use of a flashlight, roots and small plants choke the forest floor, making it nearly impossible to walk five feet without tripping and falling. The slippery wet leaves and slimy moss-covered rocks littering the ground don't help either. Not to mention the fact that he's on a fucking mountain, so the terrain is varied, sometimes climbing steeply upwards, other times falling away to nothing right beneath his boots if he's not paying enough attention. Dean's hands and...damnit...his ass have multiple scrapes and bruises by the time he crests a hill to find the cave right where his hallucination showed him it would be.

He's still not too sure how he feels about the vision/hallucination, but he's willing to accept it for now if it helps him get his little brother back in one piece.

Sam isn't there. It's definitely the Blink Bear's cave...or was anyway. Bones, most of them human, from many previous meals cover the far rear corner of the rocky cavern. Dean notes with great relief that none of the meals seem to have been recent. A thorough search of the cave and neighboring area divulges no wayward baby brother.

Dean reels frantically around in the spot where he last 'saw' Sam sprawled helplessly with the Blink Bear amusing itself by poking him with it's ugly snout. He grinds his teeth together while wishing he could kill the damn thing all over again. The reddish brown of dried blood stains the ground where he's standing. Sam's blood. There's not much there, so that's a blessing. Sam won't be bleeding out wherever the hell he went...probably. It also means there's no blood trail to follow, not much of any kind of trail at all what with the rain.

Heart pounding painfully in his chest, Dean scans the land that stretches out from the cave mouth in the weak light of the coming dawn. By standing at the cave opening and staring straight out he faces directly south and the terrain slopes gently downward, unlike the rough, jagged terrain of the direction he came from.

Sam has left no clues as to where he was going, but that in itself is a clue of sorts. As brothers growing up, they'd had ample time to think up passwords, secret signals, and special ways to communicate with each other. If Sam had been thinking clearly, he would have known Dean would come looking for him and he would have left some sort of sign as to where he was going. The lack of anything with Sam's distinctive mark on it tells Dean that his brother is not at full Sammy brain power. Even though Dean didn't see Sam get injected with venom, the smart money is on just that scenario.

Closing his eyes, Dean concentrates on his Sammy-sense, the little brother radar he's had since he was four year old. He immerses himself in everything he knows about how Sam's mind works, both when impaired and when running at full capacity. Like a hound dog following his brother's scent, he breaths deeply in through his nose, letting his lungs expand before blowing the air out through his mouth.

The last Sam saw of Dean, he was unconscious after being stung by the Blink Bear, so Sam would be worried about him. He would try to get back to where that first fight took place, but he wouldn't know what direction to go in. Since they hadn't met on the way to each other, Sam must have picked the wrong direction, which makes sense if little brother is under the influence of the Blink Bear venom. That's some nasty stuff, Dean knows from personal experience.

All possible directions had probably looked equally likely to bring Sam back to Dean, so he would have gone with the easiest way first. Right, downhill it is then.

Having made a choice and feeling pretty good about it, Dean digs a bottled water and the bag of peanut M&M's out of his backpack to eat on the way. Breakfast of champions. If Sam were here he'd be having a conniption fit or rolling his eyes. That's OK, as soon as he finds his pain-in-the-ass little brother, he can eat all the power bars he wants out of his own backpack.

Incapacitating as that venom is, Sam won't be moving fast. Dean checks Sam's backpack for his syringe of antidote. Satisfied that it's at the ready, he sets out down the sloping, heavily forested hill. Hold on bro, big brother's gonna fix this, just hold on.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Limping...stumbling...falling...crawling...pulling himself back up. He barely knows where he is most of the time, barely knows _who_ he is. All he knows is he needs his big brother, he wants Dean, thinks Dean needs him, too. But Dean isn't here, he's looking for Dean, so he continues limping, stumbling, falling, crawling, pulling himself back up.

The dark of the forest doesn't phase him, nor does the lightly falling rain. He's been wet for so long now that it seems natural, like dry doesn't exist.

When Sam reaches the clearing, it doesn't register at first. Not until there are no more trees for him to lean against does he notice the change. No trees means nothing to use to pull himself back up, so the next time he falls, he stays down.

Lying on his back, watching the faint blush of morning touch the overcast sky, Sam realizes that the plants surrounding him aren't the haphazard jumble of naturally growing vegetation. Instead they're ordered and monotonous, crops of some kind. They look familiar, multi-bladed leaves on stalks. He should probably know what they are, but the knowledge eludes him.

He hears voices before he sees anyone.

"Well, looky what we got here, a trespasser." A sneering voice announces with eager malice. "We don't take kindly ta trespassers in these parts, boy."

Sam looks over as two men reach his prone body and leer down at him. The mountain man who just finished speaking is large, easily as tall as Dean, but much wider. The baseball cap he wears proudly displays a John Deere logo. He carries a pump action shotgun with the ease of a man who was born to it. The second man is dwarfed by the first in every way. Long stringy brown hair falls to his shoulders and the nostrils in his pointy nose flare in excitement.

Under any other circumstances, Sam would have found the walking, talking, hillbilly clichés comical. Now, however, the earth is tilting crazily and the twinkle lights are darting back and forth making it difficult to concentrate on what the men are talking about.

Frown lines crease his forehead as he looks from the heavy-set (OK, he's being generous) man to the stringy hair man. He wants to ask them if they've seen his brother, but all that comes out of his mouth when he opens it is a slightly hopeful, "Dean...?"

Beady eyes in a sneering face narrow and the heavy-set man points his shotgun at Sam's chest. "You think this is some kinda joke, 'cuz I ain't laughin'."

If Dean were here he'd know what to do, he'd fix this. Sam wishes for his big brother to come save him like he's done so many times. The consummate hunter recedes, leaving the scared little brother in his place.

"'M sorry." Sam says with childishly wide eyes.

The stringy hair guy leans over him, gets right up in his face, before turning to his companion. "Look at his eyes Caleb. This here boy's either stoned out of his ever livin' mind or Bubba got to 'im."

It's heavy-set guy's...Caleb's turn to frown now as he leans forward to peer closely at Sam's eyes. The smell of stale liquor, like a dirty bar, assaults Sam's nose and he wrinkles it without thinking. A rough hand grabs his face, pinching his jaw hard. When he doesn't react, the hand releases him.

"Yup, that looks like Bubba's doing all right. I got a question for you though. If Bubba got to 'im, why's he still alive?" Caleb sucks on his teeth and looks past the fields to the forest edge, as if he's expecting something to come walking out of the tree lined shadows.

"Bubba?" The name and the strange context capture Sam's attention, he can't help but voice the question even though neither of the men are paying any attention to him anymore and that seems like it might be a good thing.

"Bubba's what ya might call...a watch dog of ours. It keeps trespassers off our land." Stringy hair guy explains, looking exceedingly pleased.

"Shut up, Gideon." Caleb growls and pokes Gideon in the gut with the business end of the shotgun.

"S'not a dog." Lost in his own head, Sam doesn't realize he's speaking out loud.

"Not exactly firin' on all pistons are ya? We know it ain't a dog, dipshit. What happened to it? Why'd it let you go?" Caleb studies him with cold-blooded eyes, snake-like and malevolent.

"Dunno." Sam sighs, drained by the effort to make sense of the conversation.

A kick to the ribs tells him he's given the wrong answer.

"That's OK, you don't have to tell me. I can finish the job just as easily as it can." Caleb smiles a grim, evil smile while taking aim with his shotgun.

"I dunno if ya should do that, Caleb. Mr. Adam might wanna talk to 'im when he gets back tomorrow." Gideon sounds reproachful.

With a frustrated grunt, Caleb brings the shotgun back into the crook of his arm, kicks Sam in the ribs a second time to compensate himself for the missed chance to shoot him, and glares at Gideon.

"Gideon, ya sure do know how to ruin a man's fun. Whatcha gonna do with 'im, keep 'im around like some kinda pet?" Scratching the back of his neck, Caleb looks at Sam like he's a piece of trash on an otherwise immaculate lawn.

"A pet, wouldn't 'at be a hoot." Gideon crows, looking delighted by the suggestion. "We ain't never had this happen before. Bubba's always finished off his prey."

The two men share a troubled look.

"I wonder what Mr. Adam's gonna say 'bout this. I sure don't wanna be the one ta go check up on Bubba." Gideon shudders.

"Yer just a big pussy is all." The bravado doesn't mask Caleb's obvious desire to stay away from 'Bubba' himself when he glances surreptitiously into the hills once again.

It's all a bit too much for Sam. Words and phrases patter around him, teasing him with hinted meaning, or maybe it's just the rain. The two men, the overcast sky, the field of plants, all strobe in dizzying circles, fading and sharpening, brightening and dimming.

Then he's being hauled up by both arms, head hanging, feet dragging behind him, callous hands under his armpits. They drag him toward a brownish stone building and there's nothing he can do to stop them. His limbs are on vacation, no longer team players as it were, they refuse to respond to his commands.

With a weary groan, he surrenders to the twinkling lights that pull him relentlessly the rest of the way under. Maybe they'll take him to Dean. God, he hopes so.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Dean crouches just beyond the edge of the forest in the gloom of twilight, watching the compound. In the hour or so that he's been here, he's seen five different men coming and going between the building and the massive fields of marijuana. Sammy has made friends with a bunch of hillbilly pot-growers and that is just so wrong, and also freakin' hilarious. Only Sam. Dean shakes his head in wry disbelief.

No, he hasn't actually seen Sam yet, but he has a gut feeling that Sam is in that compound. It's the same gut feeling that told him to turn around and get Sam out of his apartment at Stanford just as his girlfriend erupted in flames on the ceiling. The same undeniable sensation that had him rushing up the stairs at their old house in Lawrence just in time to save Sam from the poltergeist's lamp cord strangulation trick. Some might call it a highly developed sense of intuition, Dean just calls it his Sammy-sense and it's vibrating like a jackhammer every time he looks at that stone building.

It had taken him all day to find the place, much longer than he had expected. From leaving the cave he had walked in a straight line due south. When he had gone farther than a Blink Bear infected Sam could have possibly gone, he had walked east for a dozen paces or so and then walked back to the cave. He had continued searching a pattern like spokes on a wheel, using the cave as a hub until he came across this clearing and his Sammy-sense started going wild.

Now that he knows where Sam is, he needs a strategy to get him out. Sam could be there as a guest or a prisoner and Dean's surveillance of the place hasn't yet answered that question for sure. However, people who live in a compound are not the most trusting of souls. Throw in the blatant illegal activity of a fucking marijuana field the size of Texas, the amount of firepower the men are packing, and the isolated location, and Dean has a pretty good idea which scenario is more likely.

But Dean's all about live and let live, at least as far as human foibles go, not so much when it comes to the monster and spirit varieties. The pot and guns don't bother him so much. He has his own vices, Lord knows, so who is he to condemn another man's sins. He's willing to give these guys the benefit of the doubt, for now.

He decides to go with the direct approach. Checking to make sure his gun and knife are concealed, Dean stashes the backpacks with all their supplies, including the antidote, safely under some bushes out of sight. Although the fields are empty when he leaves the cover of the forest, he only makes it halfway to the windowless building before three men swarm him, guns raised, pointed at his chest and head. These guys mean business and that compound is no joke. There must be some type of alarm system around the perimeter of the property.

Hands over his head, Dean smiles ingratiatingly. "Hello fellas. I'm looking for my brother. Any chance you've seen him? Tall guy, dark hair, in desperate need of a haircut."

One of the three men smirks unkindly. "Yeah, we've seen 'im. That boy's got himself in a might bit a trouble. Ya shoulda kept a closer eye on yer brother cuz we cain't be held responsible fer what's happened to 'im." The man has short brown hair, a scraggly beard, and wears a pair of overalls that have seen better days.

"Yeah, Effriam's right, he shouldn't otter come sneakin' around our property and that goes the same fer you." This guy's acne would scare away a banshee, possibly even a boogieman. He's got blond hair that looks like it was cut with a lawn mower set on low.

All three men snicker in a way that leaves no doubt in Dean's mind about their meaning. Fucking back country assholes. If they all three had pieces of straw sticking out of their mouths the picture would be complete.

"Where is he?" Dean asks darkly, all trace of his earlier smile vanished.

"Don't git yerself all riled up now. We'd be happy ta take ya to 'im. Wouldn't we Daniel, Gideon?" Effriam turns to each of the other men in turn. Daniel is the guy with the horrible skin condition and Gideon is the one who hasn't had anything to say up to this point.

"Since ya only want ta find yer brother, I'm sure ya won't mind if we search ya first, eh?" Gideon starts patting him down before Dean has a chance to say yea or nea.

"Woah, dude, personal space, you ever hear of it?" Dean asks with just the right mixture of annoyance and outraged dignity. Even though he thinks he could probably take these three yahoos out, guns or no guns, he's willing to play along if they're actually going to take him to Sam.

They find his gun, of course they do, but not his knife which is concealed at his ankle.

A couple of threats and some shoving and he's shepherded into the drab compound at gunpoint. The inside of the building is just as austere as the outside. Each room contains the bare minimum amount of furniture, no decoration or clutter of any kind. They pass through rooms that appear to function as office space and meeting areas. From there they go down a hallway with closed doors on either side until they reach the end.

Daniel throws open the last door to reveal Sam, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor as if he'd been carried in, dropped like baggage, and left thoughtlessly how ever he landed. Dean wouldn't be surprised if that's exactly what happened.

Someone pushes him forward harshly and the door closes, a deadbolt clicks with finality.

"Sam?" Dean kneels next to his brother, places a palm lightly on his forehead. Sam's flushed face radiates heat, but he appears serene, eyes closed.

Anger threatens to choke him as he pulls Sam's lax body out of it's awkward pose, his head and shoulders resting in Dean's lap. It doesn't look as if the hillbilly assholes have done anything at all to care for Sam's injuries, just left him in here as if he were no more than a sick dog. In fact, they probably treat their dogs better than this.

"Sammy?" Dean tries again to rouse his younger sibling, rubbing circles on his chest.

Unfocused hazel eyes blink slowly several times before roaming without purpose over plain white walls, finding nothing of interest.

"Sammy? Over here, dude. Can you look at me?" Dean cups a hand against Sam's cheek, turns his head so he's at least facing the correct direction.

Wandering eyes eventually find him and a bleary smile fans across Sam's face, reminding him of a sleepy five year old Sammy. "Dean? You really here?"

He recognizes that faraway gaze, the limited sense of who and when and where, the detached feeling of watching the world pass around him. This is Sammy...this is Sammy on Blink Bear venom. Any questions?

"Yeah, I'm here. You having fun in Lala Land? You're not feeling any pain where you are, huh bro?" Dean ruffles his little brother's hair affectionately, knows he can get away with anything and Sam won't complain.

A bewildered expression fleetingly crosses Sam's face and then he's all sloppy smile and innocent eyes again.

"Dean, I was looking for you." Sam reaches up and grabs a fistful of his sopping wet jacket, holding tight so Dean can't get away. As if he's going anywhere.

"Yeah, well, you found me. Don't worry, Sammy. I got ya now. I'm going to fix this." Dean curls a loose fist into the hollow of Sam's neck and strokes his thumb soothingly along his baby brother's jaw.

Yeah, they're being held captive by Deliverance wannabees, but he's found Sam and although his brother is damaged goods at the moment, he's not beyond repair. With a sigh of near contentment, Dean settles in to plan their escape.

To be continued.

**AN: I don't know about you, but I can't stand for the boys to be separated for very long, so I got them back together as soon as I could. Now it's up to them to get away from those creeps.**

**Personal note: I'm terribly, wonderfully excited because my tickets to the Supernatural convention in Vancouver August 2010 arrived yesterday!!! My first ever convention!!! Eeeeeeee!**

**I hope you're enjoying the story and if you are, please be a dear and review. :-)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. *Boo Hoo* Now look what you've done.**

**A/N: NewspaperTaxis, you ROCK. I salute you and your most excellent reviews, they are amazing and I LOVE them. Hugs to everyone reading and especially those reviewing. I hope you have fun with this installment.**

**The Dope that we Smoke**

**by Disneymagic**

**Chapter 3 I Can be a Sensitive Man**

It's raining.

Dean can hear the drip, drop, drip on the roof of the one story building. Although there aren't any windows in this God-forsaken room, he knows the sound belongs to the lazy, fat droplets that fall like colossal tears, each one creating a forlorn counterpoint to Sam's feverish muttering.

"Get'em off me Dean...please...off." Sam paws at Dean's arm to get his attention, gazing up at his big brother through shaggy, dark bangs with a mixture of hope and trust.

"Sam, dude, you gotta stop talking. You've given me enough ammunition to give you shit until you're forty. I'm starting to get embarrassed for you." Shaking his head, Dean goes back to studying the room and plotting their escape.

There's only so much a man can take after all, awesome big brother notwithstanding, and Dean has reached his limit.

Sam remains limply splayed on the floor, head cushioned on Dean's thigh. At first Dean had been mildly amused by his completely out-of-it kid brother's rambling, saving up the more humorous bits of nearly unintelligible stream of consciousness for when they get out of this hell hole and his brother is once again fair game for some merciless teasing. But, really, what's up with the fixation on twinkly lights?

"Dean?" A pout accompanies two wide, misty eyes, looking at him imploringly.

He's never been able to deny that pout anything, not when Sam was five and not now.

"All right, where are they this time?" Dean rubs the back of his neck, closing his eyes in defeat.

"Legs...the twinkly lights are pulling on m'legs. Make'em leave me 'lone." Sam's pout is now an audible whine.

Grunting into the stretch, Dean makes shooing motions with his hands over Sam's legs and the complete lack of twinkly lights. "Go on now, leave Sam alone. Don't come back." His menacing growl echos through the empty room.

He hopes his forceful voice will convince his hallucinating brother that the lights are gone for good this time, 'cause this is getting to be fucking ridiculous.

Sam sighs in relief and smiles up at him. From the look of gratitude aimed roughly in his direction, Dean gathers that the twinkly lights are no longer pulling on Sam's legs.

The venom shows no sign of wearing off anytime soon, hasn't loosened it's hold on Sam one iota. Dean begins to second guess his decision to leave the antidote hidden outside. He'd wanted to keep it out of the hillbilly's hands as he'd been sure they would search him before letting him into the compound and he'd been right on that score. Since they only had the one syringe left, it had seemed best to keep it safe at all costs.

Getting Sam off this bizarre...farm, for lack of a better term, in his current condition, is going to be nightmarishly difficult. Dean gets the feeling that there's more going on here at the 'neverland ranch' than meets the eye. He has a plan though, it's not fully developed, but he has a plan. He always has a plan and he certainly wouldn't admit it if he didn't.

Sam has been quiet for a while now, a nice change of pace from the nonsensical ranting, but the lack of sound makes Dean nervous suddenly. Considering his brother, Dean notes that Sam's cheeks appear hollow, his eyes sunken. He seems unaware of the occasional twitching of long arms and legs.

The heat Dean feels when he ghosts his hand across Sam's forehead suggests infection or supernatural complications from the gashes inflicted by the Blink Bear's claws. If only their hosts hadn't taken his holy water he could at least clean the wound. It's possible they didn't think to search Sam before dumping him in this room, not likely, but possible. Dean goes through Sam's jacket pockets, inner and outer, where he normally keeps his tools, but everything is gone.

"Hey, Sam, you gonna be ready to walk out of here when I tell you it's time to go?" Dean tries to catch his brother's gaze, ends up fisting his jacket and shaking it slightly until Sam turns confused eyes back his way.

"'M a pet, Dean." Sam looks up at him as though he's hoping his big brother will be able to make sense of this whole crazy mess, like Dean has all the answers in a world gone mad.

Speechless, Dean tries to figure out what Sam could possibly mean, wonders if he understood the slur of words correctly, casts about for an appropriate response, finds none.

"Uh...what? Sammy...what?"

"Kicked me...said they were keepin' me as a pet." A tongue stutters over dry, chapped lips.

The muscles in Dean's jaw bunch together as he speaks through clenched teeth. "Those assholes kicked you? Where'd they kick you, Sam?"

One hand shakily moves to rub along sore ribs.

The all too familiar urge to stand as a ward against danger, to defend the defenseless, to guard those unable to protect themselves, pulses through his veins, causing his head to pound and tension to creep into his neck. Right now, his brother is about as defenseless as they come.

Dean doesn't tolerate bullies, those cowardly individuals who prey upon the weak and find happiness in the suffering of others. The objects of his contempt and ire aren't present for him to vent his wrath on, so he shelves it for when they are, tucks it away for later. That's something he's good at, shoving his feelings down deep within himself. He's had a lot of practice.

With a gentleness that belies his inner turmoil, he opens his brother's jacket and pulls up the still damp cloth of his shirts to expose the mottled bruising on his lower left ribcage. Hissing in empathy, Dean presses lightly along each rib. None of Sam's ribs shift under his touch. Not broken then, possibly cracked, definitely painful.

Sam doesn't groan or even cringe during the examination which is unusual given the level of bruising. Come to think of it, he hasn't complained at all about the gashes on his leg either. Not that Sam is normally wimpy about injuries, but he will acknowledge pain most of the time.

"Hmmm, that Blink Bear venom could be sold commercially as one hell of a pain killer, 'cause I know your ribs have to hurt like a sonofabitch." Dean comments as he eases Sam's shirts back into place, sucks his bottom lip between his teeth as worry lines crease his forehead.

Struggling to sit up, Sam pushes himself clumsily off Dean's lap, twists onto his side and gropes for support along the wall to keep from falling over. "We goin' now, Dean? I wanna go now. Don' wanna be a pet."

Sam's tracking of the conversation seems to be about ten minutes slow as he's just now answering Dean's previous question on whether he's going to be ready to leave when it's time. The constant anxiety he's displaying over the idiotic 'pet' comment, apparently made by one of the goons, has Dean wondering if susceptibility to suggestion might be one of the side affects of the venom and what other symptoms they might run into.

"I'm working on it, Sammy. Just stay here for now. Who takes care of you, little brother?" Propping Sam up so that he's leaning more or less securely with his back flush with the wall, Dean gives his brother a reassuring pat on the shoulder before flexing his calf muscles to get the blood circulating through legs stiff from hours of pillowing his brother's head. Persistent pins and needles dog his limping tour of the featureless room.

Not expecting an answer, he's surprised to hear Sam's emphatic, "You do." The words are spoken as if they are an indisputable truth, ingrained over a lifetime and requiring no thought as to the answer.

"Damn straight." Dean nods, unexpected warmth spreading through him.

The room smells of fresh paint and cigar smoke, maybe with some other smoke mixed in considering the plants surrounding the building. The floor is covered in a cheap industrial grade carpet which provides no padding. Dean isn't sure what the purpose of the room might be, but it makes a pretty effective prison cell.

Thick walls withstand his experimental kick and give back a solid sounding thud. Not that he's actually thinking about tearing the walls down, but it's good to know his options. The heavy, wooden door's hinges are on the wrong side, and the lock does indeed turn out to be a deadbolt, not impossible to pick, but requiring tools he doesn't have handy at the moment.

A quick search through his pockets reveals a box of matches. Everything else, his flask of holy water, flashlight, extra gun clip, and salt canister had been confiscated along with his gun. Of course, he hasn't forgotten about his knife, still nestled snug inside his boot.

Rough voices and clomping footsteps warn of their approach long before the lock clicks, the door opens, and four scroungy men push their way into the room. All four men have guns trained on him where he stands in front of Sam, a position he took as soon as he heard them coming. Two of the men carry glocks, G21's from the look of them, the other two hold shotguns.

Of the four sneering men, he only recognizes one of them from his earlier encounter, the hawk-nosed piece of shit who had searched him and taken his Taurus PT92 handgun...Gideon, he thinks. The other three are cut from the same mold only in larger sizes.

Dean's eyes narrow dangerously. "Which of you heroes kicked my brother? I'd really like to shake the hand of someone brave enough to take on a sick man and congratulate him on his stunning victory 'cause I'm sure Sam here must have put up one hell of a fight." His words drip sarcasm as he motions behind himself towards Sam's slumped form, shifting to allow them a brief glimpse and then repositioning to block Sam from view once again.

The largest of the men steps forward, shotgun never wavering from Dean's chest, anger turning his lips a bloodless white.

"Ya got a mouth on ya, doncha boy? Yer lucky I don't just shoot ya right where yer standin'. I got my orders though, yer both to be kept alive until Mr. Adam gits here tomorrow. He's got some plans y'all might be interested in." The man adjusts his John Deere cap with one hand while winking conspiratorially at his cohorts, suddenly in a much lighter mood.

Information is power and Dean senses an opportunity to get the 411 on the operation of this friendly neighborhood compound, possibly learn more about how many back woodsmen he's going to have to go through on his way out. Counting the other two with Gideon when he first arrived plus these four, he's met six already, seven including Adam who seems to be the leader, or boss, or whatever.

Addressing the now smirking boor, Dean baits, "So Jethro, you always do what Adam tells you? Don't you have the balls to make your own decisions?"

The taunt serves dual purposes, keeping the men talking and focusing all irate attention in the room on him, away from Sam.

One of the pistol toting guys, black hair slicked back away from his face, puts a restraining hand on the now glaring, red faced boor's shoulder. "Caleb, hold your temper. He's a dead man anyway, soon as Mr. Adam's done asking his questions, you'll get your chance at him."

Caleb shoots an appreciative glance over his shoulder and sucks air through his teeth. "Yer right Benjamin. I kin afford ta be patient. Mr. Adam only wants ta find out how much they know about our experiment in protective creatures. After this one's spilled 'is guts, Mr. Adam won't care what happens to 'im." An anticipatory glint flashes in Caleb's eyes and they flicker over to rest on Dean as though alighting on prey.

Vibrating tension like a coiled spring hums along nerve endings in response to the blatant threat and Dean can't help but to spare a glance of his own back at Sam, a quick status check just to assure himself that his brother is still all right. Sam's eyes are blank, not registering the danger, checked out, Dean realizes.

_Experiment in protective creatures. _The words spark sudden comprehension. "Are you telling me that you dumb fucks are responsible for the Blink Bear?" He asks, incredulous not because he believes the men to be innocent farmers, but because he's surprised anyone would be stupid enough to play around with something so lethal and yet be intelligent enough to work out how to create the creature, summon it, or whatever they did to get it here.

"Heh, so ya have met Bubba. I figured as much seein' as how yer brother's jacked up worse'n I've ever seen." Gideon's lopsided leer displays teeth stained tobacco yellow. "Mr. Adam'll be right pleased to hear it. He's got some tests he's just been itchin' to try out and yer brother'll make the perfect guinea pig." The pistol in Gideon's hand bounces slightly with his excitement.

The man is either a sadist or a lackey, gunning hard for his superior's approval, Dean decides.

"Yeah, well, I killed your precious creature and you're not touching Sam, end of story." His voice deepens until it resembles nothing more than a growl rumbling a warning.

"Ya hear that, Frank? He says he killed Bubba." Gideon turns his leer on a man so skinny he looks like a walking cadaver, skin stretched tight over knobby bones.

All four men snort scornfully.

Throwing a grimace that must pass as a smile at Gideon, Frank caresses the barrel of his shotgun. The sleeves of his flannel shirt don't quite reach his wrists and the bones sticking out from the cuffs are grotesquely sharp.

Frank flaps a hand in Dean's direction. "Nice try, but ya cain't kill Bubba, hot shot. It's invulnerable. And as far as yer brother goes, how're ya gonna stop us?"

"You bunch of idiots don't know as much as you think you do. That supernatural creature was mortal, and now it's an ex-supernatural creature as in no longer living, deceased, failing to breathe, a doornail." Dean ignores the comment about Sam, it's a moot point as far as he's concerned, a rhetorical question not worthy of an answer. Just let them try to get past him and they'll find out how he's going to stop them.

"Makes no difference, we made the first one, we can make another." Benjamin's country drawl is much less pronounced than his compatriots.

"Are you honestly that moronic? What possible reason could you have for creating that monstrosity?" Sometimes human motivations elude him and Dean just doesn't understand his own race. So many human emotions hold no meaning for him, greed, jealousy, self-preservation. Those feelings that often consume other people, rule their lives, hold little sway over him. He's never had much, never wanted much in the way of physical things. Sure, money's great as far as it buys a warm bed to sleep in at night, good food to eat when he's hungry, a few comforts, but more than that...he can only carry so much with him from place to place.

He can count his most fervent desires on one hand. He wants his family to be safe and healthy. He wants his family to need him, to care about whether he lives or dies. He wants for his life to matter, to make a difference in the lives of other people, save them, to be a force for the powers of good against evil. Shit, that sounds so fucking lame, but his father had instilled in him a belief that human life is sacred and he has to do anything, give up everything, to protect it.

So the all-consuming drive to amass wealth makes no sense at all to Dean. He just doesn't get it.

"That creature's right useful. Keeps pryin' eyes away from our cash crops, makes a damn fine deterrent. Why, we ain't needed ta shoot no one since Bubba come along. 'Til now anyway." Frank runs a bony finger along the trigger guard of his shotgun, taps the metal a few times, and then places his finger back on the trigger.

"We have millions of reasons, millions of cold, hard reasons. Do you have any idea how much that thing's venom will sell for on the black market? It's got a hundred and one uses, both recreationally and as a weapon. All we need is a test subject for reactions to different combinations of substances. That's where your brother comes in." Benjamin monologues.

"Not. Happening." Dean grits though clenched teeth as he flexes his knees and widens his stance, presenting as much of a barrier as he can.

At a signal from Benjamin, all four men stalk forward.

They want to keep him alive for questioning, so Dean assumes they won't shoot him. He considers pulling his knife out of his boot, but isn't there a saying about not bringing a knife to a gun fight? Besides, the hillbilly fucks don't know he has a knife yet, best to keep that his little secret for now.

"Stay down, Sam." Dean warns, hoping a part of his brother is still tuned in to him and cognizant of what's happening.

Benjamin and Caleb come at him from his left while Gideon and Frank angle around to his right. As soon as they get within range, Dean grabs Caleb's shotgun by the barrel, ducks underneath it and yanks, hard. The flashing boom of the gunshot resounds through the room as the shot gets buried in the wall over Dean's shoulder. Unprepared for the move, Caleb's grip loosens and Dean is able to swing the butt of the shotgun up to connect with the large man's chin. Windmilling arms sweep the gun out of his hands and both Caleb and the shotgun clatter to the ground.

Turning quickly to the next closest threat, Dean plants his left foot firmly and sends a sideways kick into Frank's bony hip. Frank slams into Gideon and they both topple to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

Before he can set up the next move, Benjamin grabs his arms and locks them behind his back. Clambering to his feet again, Caleb shakes his head to clear his vision and swipes blood off his chin as he stomps close enough to land a stunning punch to Dean's temple with one of his ham-sized fists. The adrenalin crashing through him drowns out the pain from the blow to his head. With a wrenching twist, Dean breaks the arm lock, spins to deliver a hard right to Benjamin's jaw, and follows up with a left to the black haired man's stomach. Benjamin's once neatly slicked back hair now falls untidily around his face as he staggers backwards.

Caleb charges him like an angry bull, which is exactly what he looks like, head down, face bright red. Dean sidesteps the lunge, grasps Caleb's shoulder and propels him into the wall, head first. The impact creates a hole in the wall where pieces of plaster rain down on top of the unconscious brute.

In the ebb and flow of the chaotic fight, Dean has moved so that he no longer blocks access to Sam. Once untangled, Frank and Gideon take advantage of Dean's distraction to attempt removing Sam from the room. Guns holstered, the two country bumpkins each latch on to one of Sam's limp arms and haul him up onto shaky legs, having to support most of his weight between them. Sam, cognizant only that he's being separated from Dean, begins thrashing ineffectively, tugging his arms out of rough hands, swinging his head around until he catches sight of his older brother across the room.

"Dean..." Sam moans.

Whether it's a cry for help or a warning doesn't matter, the one word pierces the turmoil and spurs Dean back to his side. Dean takes Frank down with a series of lightning fast jabs that he barely sees coming.

Unfortunately, Dean doesn't notice Benjamin sidling up behind him. There's a loud crack, energy-stealing pain explodes at the back of his head. Pistol-whipped. His vision tunnels, he reels sideways, fighting to stay on his feet. Another blow follows on the heels of the first and Dean falters, pain eclipsing rational thought, knees buckling, darkness consuming.

To be continued.

**AN: The names of the seven back woodsmen are Adam, Benjamin, Caleb, Daniel, Effriam, Frank (short for Frankincense) and Gideon. Anyone know what musical the names are from?**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. *Boo Hoo* Now look what you've done.**

**A/N: WOOT!!! We have lots of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers fans out there. Congratulations to borgmama1of5, dreamerswaking, bhoney, cartersdaughter, Beanie74, FiveForFighting09, and Menthol Pixie for getting the answer to my little quiz correct.**

**Sorry, it's been a while since I last posted a chapter for this story. I got preoccupied with my Wish story and RL hasn't been helping me out either. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!**

**The Dope that we Smoke**

**by Disneymagic**

**Chapter 4 Quiet Type the Kind to Watch Out For**

It's raining.

At least Sam thinks it might be raining. His skin prickles with the feel of chilly water trickling lightly along his arms and legs. But he's inside, so not raining then, just goosebumps teasing his clammy skin into hyper-sensitivity.

The thought of rain reminds him of his dry mouth and parched throat. He wonders how long it's been since he last had anything to drink. It's hard to judge due to the patches of time when he's lost, thick fog descending upon him and obscuring the here and now. He swipes his tongue across the roof of his mouth to generate some saliva, but his tongue feels shriveled and raw, like it's grating along sandpaper.

The large basement he's in is empty. The men who dragged him away from Dean, down the steps, and into this room are gone. They left as soon as they had arranged him on top of a bed, the kind commonly found in hospitals, and tightened restraints around his wrists and ankles. On the way out, one of them had mentioned a helicopter and something about tests first thing in the morning. He only caught snatches of the conversation, the majority obscured by his faltering awareness.

The bindings give a little at his half-hearted tugs, secure, but not inhumanly so. He lifts his head off the mattress and sees an almost surgical set-up. A white cloth-draped tray table beside his bed holds vials of unknown substances, bulging packets that might hold seeds or powder, needles, and gleaming sharp scalpels. Everything is laid out neatly in rows, OCD precise with corners squared off and each item the exact same distance apart. Sam has a hard time imagining any of the men he's met in this compound thus far having the patience or the organizational skills to arrange those items so neatly.

Medical monitoring equipment lines the walls, an EKG machine, a blood pressure cuff attached to a mobile stand, and many other hulking machines that Sam can't immediately identify. They're all unplugged at the moment, digital displays blank and quiet.

By turning his head to the right he can see another table. The display of drug paraphernalia clustered there sends his mind into a tail-spin of memories from his first fraternity party at Stanford. He had been lonely and desperate to fit in, excited by an invitation from one of his few acquaintances, another freshman in his psychology 101 class.

The party had been in full swing by the time he got there. As soon as he'd arrived a blue drink had been shoved into his hand. Dance music had been blaring from the stereo at an ear-splitting volume and the dance floor, the living room of the frat house with all of the furniture pushed out of the way, had been jammed with college kids jerking, bumping and grinding in a chaotic mix. Everywhere he looked there were people drinking, snorting and smoking everything imaginable.

It had all been a bit overwhelming. He had grown up knowing about things that most people would never find out about, yet he had led a sheltered and naïve life when it came to drugs and recreational substances. His Dad and Dean drank beer, sometimes hard liquor, but they stayed strictly away from any mind altering drugs, needing to keep their wits about them and their minds sharp. High school parties hadn't really been an option for him since they had moved around from place to place so frequently, never giving him a chance to make friends or get invitations to...well, anything really. That frat party had been an eye opening experience.

He recognizes the long tube of a water pipe, a set of scales, syringes, and several prescription pill bottles as well as a baggy full of marijuana buds. Someone's ready for a good time.

His head thumps back down onto the bed, too heavy to hold up any longer. The ceiling undulates in a mesmerizing roll of white paint and industrial grade florescent lights. As he passively watches the lazy spin, he can hear the florescents buzzing. Instead of providing illumination, they seem to be sucking up all the available light. sucksucksuck His vision dims, his eyes drift closed.

He floats with a swoop and a glide upward until he sees Dean below him. It's as though he's standing on a balcony overlooking the room where he and Dean were held captive earlier. Dean's still there, lying on his side with his arms tied behind his back. Blood soaks his hair, dribbles down his neck to puddle on the floor. Even though his eyes are closed and it's obvious he's unconscious, pain is evident in the pinch of his features, the lines drawn starkly around his mouth and eyes.

Sam is abruptly slammed back into his body, heart jack hammering wildly against his sternum.

_Dean! What the hell was that!_

Benjamin and Gideon choose that moment to enter the room from one of two doors to his left. He hadn't noticed either door in his earlier brief survey of his surroundings. Upon entering the room, the men carefully close the door behind them like they don't want him to see what's inside and walk purposefully toward him.

"Yer lookin' a little less loopy, boy. Now what can have caused 'at, I wonder?" Gideon looks a bit worried, his eyebrows crease, meeting in the middle of his forehead.

Sam doesn't mean to be so transparent, knows not to show all his cards in a hostage situation, but that...glimpse of his brother...he hesitates to call it a vision, has him freaked and he can't help blurting out, "Where's Dean? What have you done with him?"

His outburst brings a leer to Benjamin's bruised face. "Interesting...you're more concerned with your brother's fate than your own. I'll have to keep that in mind for later. For now, rest assured, he's safe enough, waiting for Mr. Adam to get here and ask him a few questions. Once the interview is over...well, I'm not sure what we'll do with him." Benjamin narrows his eyes, watching Sam intently for his reaction.

Even in his compromised mental state, Sam knows he has just played right into his captors' hands, given them the leverage they need to break him if they so choose. He wants to call for a do over, but no matter how much he wishes otherwise, the damage has been done and now there's no way to take it back, to un-say the words, or to rewind time. Dean will be the one to pay for his mistake. He can't let it come to that.

"What are you going to do to me?" Sam feels his lucidity beginning to slip away along with the thrumming anxiety brought on by seeing Dean bleeding and unconscious in one of the rooms on the level above.

His last ditch effort at deflection works, however, and Benjamin smiles, all teeth and malice. "Mr. Adam's helicopter will be landing on the rooftop pad in about ten minutes. You're his first order of business. He's been dying to meet you ever since we first told him about you're...mishap with Bubba."

"Blinky." Sam corrects, his mind already growing murky with the continued presence of venom in his bloodstream and the waning adrenaline.

Benjamin continues, ignoring the interruption. "Since you were kind enough to volunteer as a test subject already infected with our creation's venom, we're gonna see how you react to the venom in combination with other substances. It'll be a drug trial of sorts, only you'll be the sole participant. No one else was jumping up and down to join in the experiment it seems. I can't imagine why."

Although he fights the venom's hold, needs to stay in the here and now in order to take advantage of any opportunity to get to his brother, Sam's tenuous grip on reality flows inexorably away from him like the ocean tide. Benjamin's taunts glide past him without producing a ripple of concern. His limbs feel heavy and water logged, numb in a way that make them impossible to move, restraints or no restraints.

When Mr. Adam arrives ten minutes later, Sam can barely remember his own name, much less the reason for his restraints or the purpose for his new visitor.

The stranger, wearing a dark gray three piece suit, stands with his hands on his hips staring down at him with a pinched frown on his doughy face. His soft features mark him as a businessman, one not used to getting his hands dirty. "This is the boy infected with the venom? How can you tell?" He questions Benjamin and Gideon, looking over his shoulder at the two men who flank him on either side.

"The venom makes 'im compliant like, easy goin'. We could do anythin' to 'im and he'd just lie there and take it. Ain't 'at right, kid?" Gideon slaps Sam's cheek hard to prove his point.

His head rocks to the side and a moan escapes chapped lips.

"Perfect." The well-dressed man purrs. "Let's get started then."

Sam rolls his head until he finds Gideon's face again. "Water." He croaks softly, eyelids at half-mast.

"Oh, we gotcha somethin' much better 'n water comin' right up. Kin we start 'im off on somma Effriam's homemade whiskey, Mr. Adam? 'At stuff'll put hair on the boy's chest, sure 'nough." Gideon manages to simper up to Adam while bestowing a condescending sneer on Sam at the same time.

Eyebrows arch up as Adam ponders the request. "Hmmm, yes, alcohol would be a good starting point, commonplace enough to assume that one might mix it with a recreational drug such as we wish to manufacture from the venom. Very well, give him some of the whiskey."

Although Sam gathers from the hiss of conversation that he's going to be given something to drink, the what and why elude him. A part of his mind starts a warning hum of 'this is bad, this is wrong', but he's so thirsty and the hum gets pushed into the dark recesses of his brain where it fades out to an uneasy buzz.

Gideon is so excited he nearly skips into the second room off to his left. Once the door is open, Sam can see that the room contains a 55 gallon drum still complete with stovepipe and copper coils. It looks just like the one Hawkeye built in the old Mash re-runs he watches on late night TV when he can't get back to sleep after a nightmare. Glass bottles sit on shelves along all four walls, some full of an amber liquid, others empty. Gideon takes one of the full bottles off a shelf, holds it up to the florescent bulbs on the ceiling, and gazes at the liquid appreciatively.

"Why is he restrained if he is incapacitated? I thought you told me he's harmless." Adam glares suspiciously at Benjamin while tapping his pudgy fingers on the cloth of the table next to Sam's bed.

"He is, it's just a precaution, Sir." Benjamin's answer holds an odd mixture of respect and encouragement. It makes Sam think of a parent trying to bolster their child's courage.

"Take the bindings off him then and get him to sit up. I won't be able to judge the effects of the venom combinations with him lying down." While Adam gives his instructions, the genteel man takes baby steps backwards until he's as far away from Sam as its feasible to be and still have a good view of the proceedings. If he could get behind a plate glass wall and order his subordinates around through an intercom system, he probably would. "Leave the ankle bindings." He adds abruptly.

A stir of activity right by his side startles Sam briefly out of his hazy indifference and he swivels his head lethargically until he can see Benjamin removing the restraints from both wrists, leaning over to get to the one on the other side of the bed. The freedom means little to him, his arms barely under his control, too heave to lift.

Moving his head causes the room to spin uncomfortably. The cotton batting muffling his thoughts also seems to coat the inside of his mouth.

"Water." He articulates carefully, hoping one of the three men with him in the room will understand him this time.

"I got yer water right here." Gideon snickers, holding a full cup of light brown liquid toward him.

Then Benjamin prods him into a slouching sit, forcing him to support himself by jabbing a finger into his sore ribs when he lists to the side and continuing to nudge and berate him relentlessly into lifting his leaden arm to take the proffered cup from Gideon. He drinks deeply and doesn't stop at the choking burn of the fluid in his raw throat, drains the entire cup gulp by noisy gulp. A flash of acidic warmth ignites in the pit of his empty stomach.

When he's done, he lets the cup drop from lax fingers. It comes to rest between his legs on the hospital bed. He blinks in drowsy contentment, staring into space, mouth hanging slightly open, oblivious to the three men watching him.

All movement ceases. The room quiets to the point where the proverbial pin could be heard dropping.

Nothing happens for long minutes. Adam redistributes his weight from one leg to the other, the cloth of his trousers rustles in the hush.

"Should I give 'im some more?" Gideon directs his question at Adam with a quirk of his head.

"Not yet." Adam replies speculatively, never taking his eyes from Sam. "These things have to be done carefully or we might miss something important."

The exchange between the two men penetrates his stupor and Sam is surprised by the sudden burst of clarity. Seconds later the world erupts around him in a riot of throbbing image and noise. The light from the florescents is _too_ bright, the colors in the room are _too_ sharp, the smallest sound is _too_ loud. He slams his eyes shut, clamps his hands tightly over his ears, and rocks forward, hunching further into himself.

"Holy shit." Benjamin spits and jumps away from the bed, shocked by Sam's unexpected change from completely docile to frenetic motion. His hip knocks into the small tray table near the bed and it crashes to the ground, vials, scalpels, and packets clacking as they skitter across the floor.

Sam keens in misery, fists the hair on either side of his head, tucks in as close to his chest as he can get, trying to protect his eardrums from the auditory assault. Cackling and pointing at Benjamin, Gideon uncaringly adds to the chaotic jarring noise slicing through his skull.

"Interesting." Adam's clinically detached assessment stabs daggers into Sam's ears. "Ask him what it feels like."

Sam whimpers at the question, having heard it loud and clear even though it wasn't addressed to him. "Too loud." He moans, his voice like a claxon bell ringing in his head. "Too loud."

Without dropping the volume of his voice in deference to Sam's plight, Adam says, "Make him open his eyes. I want to know what he sees."

Embarrassed at being startled in front of his boss and being laughed at by Gideon, Benjamin takes his anger out on Sam. He strides forward, grabs his chin roughly in one hand, and forces his head up. "Open your eyes, punk." He grits through clenched jaw.

Sam does as he's told just to get everyone to stop talking and leave him alone. He needs a minute to adjust to his new reality, to check and see if his ears are bleeding. But he doesn't get the chance because as soon as his eyes are open, the entire room begins to whirl and strobe madly around him. The spastic collision of every known color, and some that Sam's never seen before, circles within his field of vision. Indigo is especially friendly. It keeps pulsing closer and closer until Sam is sure he can reach out and touch it. Before he can stop to think about what he's doing, he tentatively pokes a finger toward the color, disappointed when it recedes out of reach.

The florescent lights, that before seemed to be sucking the room dry and dark, are now excruciatingly bright. He takes a couple of deep breaths, willing his eyes to compensate for the over-exposure.

"Well...what do you see?" Impatience makes Adam address Sam directly for the first time since descending into the basement.

"It's...colorful." Sam gropes for words to describe the experience, comes up with nothing, wonders why he's giving these pricks any information at all. They're the ones doing this to him. They're the ones who created the Blink Bear. They're the ones who have Dean tied up and bleeding from a friggin' head wound upstairs.

His anger sharpens his focus. The wild whirl of color slows, the lights dim. The change is minute, but it's enough. Enough for him to take stock of the situation. Enough for him to take note of his position relative to his three captors and the stairs that lead to the room where Dean lies broken. Enough for him to acknowledge the holstered guns at Gideon and Benjamin's hips and the lack of a gun at Adam's. Enough for him to come up with a plan.

The plan is this – act much more impaired by the venom/alcohol combination than he actually is, lull the hicks into a false sense of security, mask his lethal intent, and strike at the first opportunity. Get to Dean and get them both the hell out of here.

He's already given a pretty good show and since his captors have no basis for comparison, it should be easy to make them think he's still out of his head. After all, he is still out of his head, just not as much as they believe. Benjamin even told Adam that he was harmless.

The trick is going to be in keeping this level of focus long enough to put his plan into action. He can already feel the insistent pull of the venom, trying to drag him back under. The cacophony of light, noise, and color are hard to ignore. Anger appears to be the key.

It's ironic that his anger is the only thing keeping him sane now after all those years before leaving for school when he was certain his anger was going to make him crazy. Frustration at feeling trapped in a life with no choices, jealous of a brother who embraced that life, thrived on it, resentment for a father who made all the rules. All of it churning inside him until he had to 'get out' 'get away', before he did something he would regret for the rest of his life. He loved his dad and his brother back then just as much as he loves them now, but he was afraid that if he stayed he would say something, do something, in anger that would hurt them irrevocably. If he only knew then what he knows now...

He rewinds his train of thought, thinks about the Blink Bear killing innocent hikers, thinks about Dean falling after receiving two harsh blows with the butt of a pistol to the back of his head, concussion, brain damage, lets the rage build in his gut.

Sam holds the anger in his heart and in his head, but doesn't let it touch his face, schools his expression into dumb wonder, and lets his gaze wander from color to color flickering in front of him. Any noise at all still grates within his ear canal, so no acting is required to flinch when Adam makes his next demand.

"Well, that was exciting. Let's try the marijuana next. It's also commonplace enough to be used in conjunction with other drugs. We need to know how they react together."

Quick as a wink, Gideon has the weed and bong prepped and ready to go. "You done this 'afore, boy?" He asks Sam, holding out the bong.

There's no way Sam's adding any new narcotics to the cocktail he already has going on. The venom and the alcohol are plenty to keep at bay, thank you very much. Anything else could tip him over the looming cliff and into oblivion.

Instead of flat out denial, Sam blinks groggily at Gideon, keeping up the facade of harmless doped-up kid.

The deception only lasts for so long though because when Gideon positions the bong over his mouth and Sam breaths through his nose, the smoke in the pipe doesn't go anywhere. It's pretty obvious he's not inhaling. There's nothing that Adam and his goons can do to make him inhale the smoke, so Gideon resorts to threats.

"If you don' start smokin' 'at weed, I'm gonna break yer fingers one by one."

It's an idle threat and they all know it. Breaking Sam's fingers, or anything else for that matter, sets them back days while they wait for him to recover. The information they get won't be accurate if Sam's in too much pain and they won't get anything from him if he passes out.

After a beat of silence, Benjamin's face lights up like a Christmas tree. "Wait a minute. His brother. We can't break this fella's fingers, but we can break his brother's fingers no problem. I have a feeling that'll be much more effective anyway."

Sam feel the heat of Benjamin's stare and works hard to keep the flicker of anger from reaching his eyes.

Turning away from him with a smirk that makes Sam think he may not have done such a great job of hiding is true feelings, Benjamin says, "Gideon, go tell Frank to take a break from preparing for the summoning and binding rituals and have him help you bring the tough guy down here."

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

It takes Dean several agonizing attempts to fight his way clear of the sticky morass of unconsciousness for longer than a few seconds. The first time, he never really makes it all the way to the surface. Eyelids flutter as he hovers _so_ close before slipping down beneath the hard won layers once more. The second time, he breaks through, opens his eyes, and knows two things – something is wrong and he's alone. Those two thoughts follow him spiraling away into the depths of nothing. The third time, it's the panic that finally brings him all the way there.

Silence greets his straining ears, the only sounds – his shallow breathing and stuttering heartbeats. The echoing sense that he's _alone, alone, alone_, assails him again. And he hates it, hates coming to and not knowing what went wrong with no one there to explain things to him, ground him. He hates being hurt, the helpless feel of it, and he knows he's hurt even though the pain hasn't hit him yet. He can tell by the way his body doesn't want to respond, the stiffness of his joints, the way his heartbeats limp along and then scramble to catch up, the airy disassociated space inside his head. Unfortunately, he's dealt with it all before and he'll have deal with it now.

The awkward position he's in, lying on his side with his hands behind his back and is head canted at an extreme angle, isn't doing him any favors. Stealing himself to sit up, he tries bringing his hands in front to assist in the transition only to find that they're tied together.

Pain blossoms from his skull, tracing a vibrating path through his entire skeletal structure. A stomach-curdling ache starts in his jaw and ends in his fingers and toes. The power of it, hot and crushing, pulls a gasp from heaving lungs.

"Sam..." Longing overrides the knowledge that Sam's not there and his brother's name is torn from him, ripped from his lips like a prayer. Despair paralyzes him for a moment.

Sam's not here.

The pounding in his head halts all higher brain functions and he can't seem to remember what happened to him, why he's tied up, or even where he is, but his training kicks in anyway. It's the one thing he can always count on.

Eyes still closed, he concentrates internally, taking physical inventory. Everything aches in a dull 'run ragged' way, especially his shoulder, but the only alarming pain comes from the back of his head. His clothes are finally dry, stiff and scratchy from drying while he was still in them and that seems to be a clue. His clothes were wet because he wore them in the rain...rainforest...Smoky Mountains...Blink Bear...compound...hillbillies...pistol-whipped. It all comes flooding back. And Sam is in this compound somewhere, being experimented on. That gets Dean's attention quick.

His eyes pop open revealing a fog-shrouded room containing two of everything. Blurry double-vision, so it's a good bet that he has a concussion, as if the mind-numbing pain hadn't been a big enough tell.

Lips pursed together in a tight line, he tests the knot-tying skills of his captors. Not too bad actually, he won't be wriggling out of these ropes any time soon. There's always his knife though, hidden inside his boot, flush with his ankle. He ignores the screaming power drill gouging a hole into his head and contorts his body into a pretzel until his hand grasps the hilt of his knife, pulling it out of his boot in triumph.

It's slow going, cutting ropes around your wrists behind your back. Halfway through the first rope, he hears voices in the hallway outside his door. Muffling a few choice cuss words, Dean stashes the knife in the waistband of his jeans for easy access. There's no reason the pot-growing farmers should suspect him of having a knife since they've already searched him once.

The lock clicks open and in come hillbilly hick number one and hillbilly hick number two.

To be continued.

**A/N: I appreciate feedback, please let me know how I'm doing.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. *Boo Hoo* Now look what you've done.**

**A/N: Lots of hurt!Dean in this chapter, but don't worry, I won't break him beyond repair. **

**The Dope that we Smoke**

**by Disneymagic**

**Chapter 5 If You Can't Stand the Kitchen, Get the Hell Out the Heat**

It's raining.

Caleb trudges through the sloppy drizzle without giving it a second thought, it's always raining. The almost constant rainfall and the isolation are what make this the perfect location for growing their cash crop, not to mention their other illicit activities. Their operation is small, as these types of things go, but highly lucrative.

Each of the men here have a specialized set of skills and responsibilities. Adam is the brains of the outfit, the front man. He makes the deals and the decisions. Benjamin is his right hand man. He makes sure all Adam's plans and orders are carried out to his specifications. Daniel is the farmer of the bunch, tending the fields and presiding over the harvest. Effriam has a way with the still and produces the finest whiskey known to man, otherwise known as the nectar of the gods. Frank is the one who leaned how to create and control the creature. His uncle in Montana, or some other relation, Caleb hadn't really been listening to the specifics, had taught him how. Frank takes a lot of pride in his ability to control the bear-like beast, although, really, the control is pretty loose at best, more of a 'you can do whatever the hell you want as long as you don't eat us' kind of thing. Gideon is just a general lackey. His latest assignment is to develop some kind of marketable substance from the venom of the creature. Adam's always trying to come up with new products, he's very progressive that way.

As head of security, Caleb provides the muscle and he's happy to do so. He's passionate about his job, fuckin' loves it, as a matter of fact. Where else would he have full access to numerous weapons, free reign to do with them as he pleases, to take care of trespassers in any way he sees fit. And the pays not bad either.

Up until recently, he's never had to curb his inclination for violence. Mr. Adam never cared about what happened to the unfortunates who found their way to the compound in the past, had always encouraged his slightly sadistic tendencies. This time it's different though and Caleb resents his power being rescinded, his authority being questioned. He resents those two arrogant, overly-confident kids for screwing up a perfectly good gig.

Part of his job involves maintaining the security system. The monitoring equipment is housed in a shed on the outskirts of the property, his office, he likes to call it. He spends the majority of his time in there, puttering around and watching for any signs of curious hikers or overly zealous park rangers. The potential for unwelcome visitors is higher now that their watch dog/monstrous creature has been put out of commission, even if that situation is only temporary and soon to be rectified by the creation of a new beast.

Boots squelching through slick mud, Caleb makes his way across the field and into the outbuilding. Familiar rows of high-tech computer monitors greet him as he enters, incongruous with the very rustic appearance of the building itself. He checks each one, noting the positions and views of the property provided on the black and white screens. Nothing moves within a 100 square foot radius of their land that he isn't aware of. It makes him feel omnipotent, all-knowing, all-seeing. He flicks the walkie-talkie attached to his belt on and transmits an all-clear signal to the occupants of the compound.

Satisfied, Caleb nods to himself and grins, all brackish teeth and malice. Tonight they summon a new Blink Bear, enslave it, and collect a supply of venom from it. Once Mr. Adam has finished with his two pesky guests, they'll be turned over to him. Happy days are here again.

The radio receiver crackles and Benjamin's clipped voice comes over the line, "Hey Caleb, your services are required down in the basement. You might wanna bring some of your favorite tools."

Oh yeah, happy days are here again.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Dean's stomach churns and he swallows reflexively, glaring up at the sound of the door opening.

The two sneering, ranch-hands who come toward him, the smallish one and the skinny one, Gideon and Frank he thinks, are both chuckling morbidly and staring at him, as though they're sharing an inside joke and he's about to be let in on the punch line. Somehow, he doesn't think he's going to get quite the level of enjoyment out of the joke as they are.

"On yer feet, wise ass. Yer brother needs a bit of persuadin' an' we think yer jus' the one ta do it." Gideon snickers while prodding Dean's leg with one well worn work boot.

"You know, that back water twang of yours just gets funnier every time I hear it." Dean tries on his signature cocky smile. It wavers for a moment before sticking, the knot at the back of his head sending a jolt of electricity through every pain receptor in his body.

Dean puts up a token amount of resistance when they grab his arms and haul him up, simply because it's expected, but honestly, he doesn't care where they're taking him. Anywhere is better than locked in this shitty room that doubles as a prison cell.

Disabling vertigo knocks his legs out from under him as soon as they get him vertical. He drops to his knees, head hanging low, breathing heavily through his nose, eyes closed. The two men have firm grips on his upper arms and they don't give him a chance to collect himself. There's no pause for him to stop the dizzying rotation of the room or to convince his stomach not to rebel. Instead he's pulled roughly along until they reach a wooden staircase where he receives a shove that sends him tumbling head over heels onto the cement floor below.

"Bastards!" Dean groans, feeling a trickle of blood from a new cut above his left eye. Great, just great, that's all he needs. Now on top of fuzzy double vision, he has to deal with blood running into his eyes, impairing his sense of sight even more, and he's pretty sure he's going to need to be able to see at some point. As if his job of rescuing his brother and making it out of this fucking compound hadn't already been difficult enough.

Laying as still as possible, Dean fights to bring his faltering heart beats into some semblance of regular, his harsh breathing into something like deep and even. The smell of burning marijuana permeates the air. His head hurts so much, it feels as though it might rupture, spilling brain goo on every surface, and he kinda wishes it would, just to get it over with.

He's so preoccupied with tamping out the scores of fireworks exploding behind his eyes that he doesn't even sense the presence of others in the room. Not until Gideon and Frank tromp down the stairs behind him, brutally drag him across the floor, and yank his head up with fistfuls of his hair does he see Sam.

Sam is a wreck. Floppy chocolate brown hair spilling across his forehead, shoulders hunched forward like he's trying to take refuge by curling into a ball, legs pulled straight out in front of him and buckled at the ankles on top of the gurney, mouth hanging open with a dopey, vacant look.

Shuddering internally, Dean allows himself a brief moment of self pity. It's all up to him then. Sam's in no position to help and that means the weight of their survival falls squarely on top of his currently aching shoulders. The thing is...Dean isn't positive he can get himself out of this screwed up mess, much less carry his ginormous baby brother out, and that's what it's boiling down to. He's certainly not high tailing it out of here without the dopey idiot, so where exactly does that leave them?

Then Sammy winks at him. It's just the barest twitch of an eyelid and no one would have known it for what it was except Dean who knows every facial expression that has ever crossed his brother's face. In fact, he senses it more than he sees it, his eyesight compromised the way it is, but he's certain Sam knows what's going on and they're back in business, ready to tackle this obstacle, take on these dumb assholes, as a team.

That wink fortifies him like pure adrenaline or an entire pot of coffee.

Straining against the cruel hands clamped in his short hair, Dean glances around the basement for the first time. Five of their captors, including Gideon and Frank still stationed behind him, sneer back at him from various points around the room. Benjamin stands next to Sam's bed, leaning a carefree hand on the mattress next to his brother's hip and holding a bong up to his face like a threat. Raindrops glisten on Caleb's cap and windbreaker where he slouches next to a closed door. The man must have just come from outside. Adam presides over the entire gathering with the air of a royal monarch from his position on the far side of the room.

That makes the odds two against five. Under the best of conditions those odds might be workable. These aren't even close to the best of conditions. Even if Sam _does_ have some fight left in him, there's still the matter of the bindings around his ankles. It'll take time to get his legs free and in that time, their opposition could be inflicting a lot of damage. Not to mention the fact that Dean has failed to make it all the way to standing unsupported ever since his introduction to the handle of Benjamin's glock and is currently on his knees with his hands tied behind his back.

He has to be realistic, if they're getting out of here, the timing is going to have to be perfect. As much as he would love to go all bad-ass on these freaks and teach them not to mess with his little brother, show them the power of Winchester up close and personal, he's going to have to play it cool and wait for a better opportunity.

Adam smiles cold as a crocodile. "Let's see if his brother can persuade him to cooperate. Caleb, break the first finger please, just one and then we'll see how our test subject feels about our request."

Caleb moves in holding a wrench and a pair of pliers, his expression full of cruel anticipation.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam tense slightly and he knows he has to warn his brother to stand down before he escalates the confrontation prematurely, gives away their hand before they can play it properly.

They have a system of code phrases for use in situations just like this one. The trick is to remember which phrase means what and then figure out how to use it in a sentence that sounds natural, _not_ like a code phrase being randomly inserted into cheesy dialogue. Now normally Dean's all about the witty repartee, words flowing fast and easy. He's rarely at a loss for something to say. Unfortunately, the worst migraine in the history of all migraines has embedded barbed tentacles into his temples and he's finding it difficult to come up with a way to use the phrase 'dust in the wind' in a sentence without it sounding incredibly hokey. He may need to rethink his code phrase convention, come up with something easier to mean 'wait for my lead', but for now, he has to work within the established system.

Just as Caleb reaches his side, Dean blurts out, "You better hope I don't live through this, because if I do, I'm going to rip you dicks into so many pieces, all they'll be able to find of you will be dust in the wind."

Lame, and yet, Sam clearly gets the message, tension drains from his neck and shoulders.

"Yer not makin' this any better for yerself, ya know that doncha?" Gideon snickers and digs dirty fingers into the tender flesh of his inner arm right above his bicep.

Lips pulled back in a snarl, Caleb says, "Untie 'is hands and hold 'im still."

Dean's not about to make this easy for them, he bucks backwards, staggers to his feet where he feels less vulnerable, trying to twist out of Frank and Gideon's grasp. It works to delay the inevitable, but in the end, they have him right where they want him, right hand, his gun hand of course, extended and held in vise-like grips while Caleb screws the wrench tight around his index finger close to the knuckle. At that point it becomes counter-productive to struggle as each pull of his hand inflicts damage without Caleb having to do anything more than hold the wrench still.

He finds himself holding his breath, forces himself to breathe. The muscles in his jaw ripple with the force of extreme pressure as he grinds his teeth together. Waiting for this to happen is actually worse than the snap of bone itself. Dean has had broken bones before, but it's always been a surprise, quick and over with before he even knows it's about to happen. He thinks he might go crazy from the expected torture before they even get around to breaking his first finger.

Caleb clamps the pliers neatly around the meaty part of his finger, between two joints, squeezing hard, then jerks sideways sharply.

"Mother fuckers!" Dean gasps through the aftermath of popping bone and searing pain, following up with a string of expletives that would have made even his father blush.

Sam's eyes are closed, unable to witness the mutilation of Dean's hand while pretending to be nearly comatose and, therefore, powerless to stop it, and Dean knows from the flaring nostrils that Sam's not okay with this. His brother stays still, however, waiting for Dean's signal, for now at least.

Benjamin thrusts the bong back under Sam's nose. "Take a hit or we move on to the next finger. Your worthless brother has nine more to go and then we can always move on to his toes."

Hazel eyes crack open slowly, swim for a moment, and then slide over to meet Dean's green, the question written starkly for only Dean to see – 'What should I do?'

Shaking his head Dean chokes. "No, Sammy, no." He pleads with his eyes, 'give me some more time, have faith in me, I can handle this'. Having no idea what Sam's been through so far, what 'tests' have already been done, Dean worries about how he's going to counteract whatever damage was inflicted before he got down here. They definitely don't need anything else added to the mix.

With shaky resolution, Sam turns his head to the side, rejecting Benjamin and the now barely smoking bong.

Caleb sucks air through his front teeth and the sound grates across Dean's already shattered nerves. Glancing askance of Adam, the merciless bastard roughly repositions the wrench around Dean's middle finger on the same hand.

Throbbing agony shoots up his arm from his wounded hand. He attempts to protect himself from further trauma by bringing the appendage close to his torso, but a hard yank of the wrench by Caleb forestalls his efforts and he groans inadvertently.

The pliers move with surgical precision to a joint on the next finger. Stress builds inside him as the pressure on his skin under the pliers increases, metal edges digging into the cartilage and grinding the bones of the joint together. Dean holds his breath, muscles rigid.

Caleb's malevolent voice drawls slowly, "Ready then, boy? On the count of three, one...two..." He waits a couple of seconds, prolonging the suspense. "Three." A quick twist of the wrist accompanies the last word and Dean's hand erupts in flames as the joint is bent backwards.

Air slams into his lungs in a gasp, darkness gathers on the edges of his vision, the world slides nauseatingly underneath him. Dean forces his eyes away from the grotesque shape of his fingers, the white of bone protruding through bleeding flesh. His knees give a little bit and he sags into Frank for a moment. It takes him a few seconds and several steadying breaths before he feels the room solidify around him once again. Something needs to give soon. He's not sure how much more of this he's going to be able to take and the reddish cast to Sam's face tells him, his brother is close to losing the last of his control as well.

Dean sees Sam ease his upper body forward, hands inching down his thighs to his knees, then lower to his calves. Everyone in the room is eagerly watching Dean come apart from the pain and Sam is very cleverly using the diversion to free himself from the restraints. Their captors are sick, psychotic assholes, every single one of them, so it just makes sense that they would be unable to pry their attention away from the scene of another person's misery and humiliation. Dean cheers Sam on in his head as he begins another string of highly inventive cuss words. By insulting each of the hillbillies in turn and questioning the parentage of all their relatives, Dean buys Sam the time he needs to unbuckle the straps and lay them back over his ankles so that it looks like they're still secure.

Sam is back to slouching drunkenly with a bleary half-aware look on his face by the time Benjamin turns to shove the bong and the lighter under his nose again. "Maybe we misjudged you. Doesn't seem like you care about your brother too much after all. Just gonna let him suffer when all you'd have to do to stop it is to inhale? That's pretty damn cold." Benjamin taunts. "He is a bit of a disappointment, isn't he? I mean, all that big talk about how he isn't going to let anyone harm you and now look at him...all bark and no bite if you ask me." The black haired man leans casually into Sam's side, speaking softly as though sharing a confidence, yet loudly enough to make sure that Dean hears every word.

Sam doesn't acknowledge the attempt to rattle him, not even a twitch registers in his empty gaze, but the words slice straight through to Dean's soul and though he narrows his eyes and scowls on the outside, he can't help the flutter of despair that warps his insides, digging deep into his gut. _Shit_, yeah, that barb cut a little too close to home, battering his inner insecurities and leaving him riddled with self-doubt.

Looking at his expensive sterling silver watch dismissively, Adam states, "That's all right, we have plenty of time to convince our test subject to cooperate." He picks a piece of lint off his suit sleeve. "Frank, how close are we to being ready for the summoning ritual tonight?"

"Everythin's ready fer the summonin' ritual, Mr. Adam." Frank preens under the attention of his boss. "I even found a better bindin' ritual. This time th' beast'll follow commands, make it right easy ta git all the venom we need. I need some help wit th' translation though and then there's th' cage ta ready." He's quick to add, "But we'll still be all set ta go tonight, sir."

"Good, that's real good." A pink tongue darts out of Adam's mouth making him look like a pleased toad who just caught a fat, juicy fly. "In that case, you and Benjamin should return to your work at the alter, continue your preparations. Gideon, see if this young man wants us to stop breaking his brother's fingers." With the wave of his plump hand, Adam gestures toward Sam.

Gideon and Frank move quickly to follow orders, releasing their holds on his arms and the sudden lack of restraint and support cause Dean to stumble forward a step, bringing him that much closer to Caleb, unfortunately, and Sam. He revels in the freedom to move his arms, amazing how such small things can sometimes make him so happy, and swipes the back of his good hand across the cut still dripping blood into his eye, removing as much of the tacky red liquid obscuring his vision as he can.

Gideon accepts the bong from Benjamin and takes a hit off of it himself, ensuring that there's plenty of smoke remaining in the chamber before offering it to Sam with a toss of his head to get the stringy blond hair out of his eyes. "Better take yer chance now while we're still in a good mood. If'n we start ta git impatient, yer brother might end up loosin' 'is fingers instead of just havin'em broken."

Chuckling mirthlessly, Benjamin and Frank cross the space to the closed door on the opposite side of the basement. When they open it, Dean catches a glimpse of a black alter, a dozen or so symbols drawn on the walls and floor in what he hopes is red paint, and a large ornate chalice brimming with an unidentifiable liquid.

A kernel of hope grows inside him. Adam and his gang of entrepreneurs are getting over confident with success seemingly so close at hand. They don't see Dean or Sam as much or an obstacle at this point, if they ever did, and now they're giving Dean the opening he's been waiting for.

The heavy door to the alter room snicks closed and Dean bolts into action, prays that Sam is quick on the uptake, pulls his knife out from behind his back, and stuffs the swell of blinding pain from his head and hand into the background of conscious thought. Mind over matter, sheer will power verses incapacitating injury, the lessons of a lifetime of training come to the forefront once more. 'If you don't think about it, Dean, the pain doesn't exist', his father's command echoes through him, propels him headlong into Caleb's surprised form. He grunts as his shoulder rams into the sturdy man's substantial girth, tackling him to the ground and straddling him with his knife flush against the exposed skin under the large man's jaw.

Sam launches off the hospital bed in one fluid movement, pulling Benjamin's pistol out of the holster on his way past, and the kid's no dummy, he doesn't aim the gun at Benjamin, instead he keeps going until he has one well muscled arm locked around Adam's neck, gun pressed firmly into his temple. He must have been planning that feat for a while now because it's seamless and it happens so fast, the table are flipped so completely, that the three men are outgunned and outmaneuvered before they even have a chance to blink.

"We're leaving now." The deadly intent on Sam's face belies the quiet tone of his voice. "You call for help and you'll wish you hadn't."

"That's right, and you can take your fucking 'disappointment' and stick it up your thoroughly bitten ass." Condescension hangs heavy in the air and Dean smirks while relieving Caleb of the shotgun strapped to his side. The smirk transforms into a grimace once his mutilated fingers touch the cold metal of the gun. He gasps at the freshly triggered wave of agony and only barely manages to not drop the gun by pushing it hastily into the crook of his elbow and releasing his throbbing hand.

Dean stands shakily, leaves Caleb lying on the floor, backs away from the men, and leads the way to the staircase. Sam follows towing Adam, still in a head lock, along with him, using the man's body as a shield and a threat. Muffled squeals can be heard coming from Adam's constricted throat. The two disarmed men left in the basement watch their progress up the stairs, wearing matching expressions of calculating anger.

When they reach the top of the stairs, Sam pushes Adam hard enough to propel the plump man careening down the steps. "Catch." He calls before closing and locking the door to the stairwell. Sounds of outrage erupt from behind the closed door, but it should hold tight for a while.

Dean looks at Sam with a mixture of relief and skepticism. "Why aren't you wasted?"

"I am."

And sure enough the fire in Sam is fading fast, right before his eyes. The rally appears to be over, eyelids drooping, long legs clumsy as they both stumble down the hall that Dean is fairly certain will take them to the front door of the compound.

"Your hand, Jesus. It's a mess." Sam seems to remember a little belatedly.

"Tell me about it. It fucking hurts like hell, too."

He's really trying hard not to think about his hand actually, or the churning nausea in his stomach, or the intense pounding in his head. Everything starts to weave in and out around him and he's almost startled when they get to their destination, the exit that leads out to the fields and beyond to the forests of the Smoky Mountains. No one else seems to be around. Dean can't be bothered to worry much about where the other two hillbillies might be, probably out taking care of the crops.

At some point along their way down the hall, Sam had begun to lean on Dean without Dean taking much notice of it, however he can't help but realize he's mostly supporting his gangly brother when he tries to open the door while juggling said brother, Caleb's confiscated shotgun and his knife, all with only one functioning hand.

"A little help here, Sam." Getting no reply, Dean grumbles. "Let's get you out of here and find the antidote I stashed out in the woods."

He props Sam up against the wall, slides his knife into his boot, and exchanges the shotgun for the pistol Sam still holds loosely in lax fingers. The pistol fits snug into his waistband at the small of his back. Having freed up his hands, Dean opens the door and peers out, then pulls Sam off the wall, one arm slung over his shoulder. "One foot in front of the other, gigantor, come on. We can do this." He huffs.

Cinching his brother close, he angles toward the edge of the field where he remembers entering the clearing. Time seems to ebb and flow in random spurts and sprints. There's a tightening band around his chest, making it difficult to catch his breath and he wonders it they're going to make it to the antidote before his wavering vision gives out completely. The pain in his head is fighting the pain in his hand for top billing.

He zones out for a while, walking with his eyes mostly closed, trusting some sixth sense to let him know when to stop. Abruptly, they're there. Dean yanks the strap of his backpack out from under the concealing bush. It only takes a moment to find the syringe and inject the anti-venom into one of Sam's veins and his eyes immediately begin to clear. It's like turning a dimmer switch from low to high or like watching muddy water run clean and transparent.

Exhaustion creeps up on him while he's standing next to his brother, waiting for full recovery. He knows he's not getting enough air and his lungs are burning, but he can't decide what he needs to do about that. His legs start to feel wobbly and there's something he's supposed to be doing, so he locks his knees to prevent himself from sitting down. Shooting stars collide in the sky, his eyes slide closed.

The next thing Dean is conscious of is the feel of something warm pressing against his cheek, arms wrapped around him, holding him up. He hears a voice, Sam's voice, a low murmur in his ear. The words flow around him, soft like a blanket, and he relaxes into it even though he knows he shouldn't.

"Hey, hey, take it easy. I've gotcha. You're all right." Reassurances given in Sam's most calming tone, the one he reserves for when he's afraid Dean's about to go into shock from blood loss or for a small child who has just witnessed something bone-chillingly spooky and is getting ready to bolt.

"What's up with the hug, Sammy?" He tries for an intimidating snarl, yet what comes out is a barely audible slur. Not enough to convince anyone, and especially not his surprisingly emo little brother, that he's currently capable of moving from this spot.

"Right, _I'm_ hugging you. You're the one who leaned into me and put your head on my shoulder, man. I was just trying to keep you from falling over and hitting your head...your already concussed head." Sam tightens his grip as though Dean might try to escape before he's ready.

Dean recognizes Sam's attempt at levity and he appreciates it even as he searches for a cocky response and comes up with zilch. His brain feels as though it has liquified and is sloshing around inside his skull. He needs to push Sam away, but he doesn't only because he can't seem to find the strength, _not_ because it feels so damn good to let someone else carry the weight of family responsibility for a little while, to feel like someone cares about _him_ for a change.

"No way, dude. I don't do hugs." Dean puts every ounce of assertiveness he has left into the statement, cringing when he still sounds breathless, unable to attain the volume he wants to project.

"Yeah, I know you don't. None of that girly shit for you." Sam sounds amused. "Now sit down before you collapse."

Sighing heavily, Dean lets his brother lower him to the soggy ground. "We can't stay here, Sam. Now that you're playing with a full deck again, we have to go back in there and destroy the alter, stop them from summoning another one of those stingy-bear creatures."

"No, you need to rest first. Dean, you were shaking so hard I thought you were having a seizure , your face turned white as a sheet, you were about two seconds from face planting." At the argumentative look on Dean's face, Sam continues, "And besides, those assholes can't summon another 'stingy-bear creature' until nightfall, so we have time for _both of us_ to recuperate before going back in there."

Dean knows he's being manipulated, he's got a concussion, he's not stupid. Still, it's too much of a temptation to deny the out his brother is giving him. "Fine, we'll wait until the sun goes down before going back in."

To be continued.

**A/N: Depending on how it goes, the next chapter might be the last one for this story.**

**I would love to hear from you and I get a huge thrill from reading what you think, so if you can spare the time, please write a review. Thank you.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. *Boo Hoo* Now look what you've done.**

**A/N: I offer my most heart-felt thank you to everyone reading this story. It's been a labor of love. I don't want to bore you all with tales of my work life, just suffice to say things have not been great for me lately and all sense of accomplishment I used to get from my job has been leached away. I have poured myself into writing instead as a surrogate and, therefore, being able to complete this story and post the final chapter has me very happy and excited. It's a long one, the longest chapter I've written so far. Hopefully it's worth your time to read as I've spent many hours grappling with it. Of course, I'll never know if you don't tell me, so please leave a comment. XOXO**

**The Dope that we Smoke**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 6 I'll Always be a Gypsy or Forever be Aloof**

It's not raining.

Sam notes the absence and is thankful for the respite. His clothes are finally dry and he's happy to keep them that way. Sunlight dapples the forest floor, creating shifting patterns of light and muted shadows where the slight breeze catches the leaves in a slow dance among the branches. The air is thick and humid, unseasonably warm from the sunshine. He takes his jacket off, spreads it on the ground, and sits wearily facing Dean so he'll know if his brother needs anything.

Dean is a wreck, but he looks much better than he did twenty minutes ago. Sam had come out of his Blink Bear venom induced daze to see his brother standing nearby, every inch of him visibly trembling. It was a miracle he was able to stand at all. He'd been completely unresponsive to Sam calling his name and with his eyes closed, no color in his face, hair matted with blood, he'd looked like death warmed over. It had scared the crap out of him. He hadn't been lying when he said he thought Dean was having some kind of fit and he still isn't sure what could have caused the shaking. Something to do with the head injury maybe and that's still a little scary because they're miles away from a hospital and have no transportation.

"How you doing over there, Sam? All cylinders firing?" Dean interrupts his thoughts.

"Yeah, I'm still a little blitzed though. I…um…drank some stuff…a lot of it…and things are fuzzy. I'm okay though." As an after thought he adds, "Leg hurts."

"Oh, you're feeling that now, huh? We should wash the gashes out with holy water. It's a bit late, but better late than never I guess. Is it infected?" Dean blinks a couple of times as though he's gathering himself for some world record breaking feat and then slowly works himself up to his knees. "Whoa." He says, swaying uncertainly.

Busy inspecting the sliced skin for signs of infection, Sam doesn't see his self-proclaimed care taker battling his way to his feet until he hears the softly spoken exclamation. "What do you think you're doing? I thought we already established that you are supposed to be resting. I can get the holy water myself." Okay, that may have come out a little more pissy than he had intended and the look of hurt that flashes across Dean's face confirms that fact for him.

"Yeah, no, I get that. Knock yourself out. I'm pretty sure there's an extra flask of holy water in my pack." Dean tugs his jacket off with a wince and lays it out on the ground, mimicking Sam's idea, and then sprawls on top of it. "Gonna have a wet butt now." He mutters mostly to himself.

Sam instantly feels like a heel. Sometimes his worry comes out as anger, that anger that always seems to be simmering barely under the surface. The double standard that Dean employs on a regular basis irritates Sam to no end. No matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to get away from the stigma of being the younger brother. All he wants is to be treated like an equally contributing member of the team and sure, there are times when he needs Dean's help, and when he does, he asks for it. It irks him that Dean won't ask for his help, assumes he either can't or doesn't want to be there in return when in all honesty, he likes helping out, taking care of his brother when he needs it, and feeling useful just as much as he knows Dean does. Despite how annoying his brother can be though, Sam finds it difficult to stay upset with him when he still looks all wobbly and shattered. "Look, Dean…"

"There's regular bottled water in the other pack and energy bars. You need to eat and drink, get your strength up." Talking over him, Dean squints and waves his good hand toward the pack already open at Sam's feet, crippled hand tucked close to his chest.

In all honesty, Sam does feel light headed and dizzy himself, so yeah, priorities; water and food first, patching up Dean's hand and inspecting his hard head second, and seeing what can be done about the mostly scabbed over and possibly infected gashes on his leg third.

"Yeah and then I'll find some way to wrap you hand. How's you head?" In the absence of a request for assistance, which he knows he's not going to get, the best way to handle a badly injured and still conscious Dean is to bully past the defenses, refuse to take 'no' for an answer or never pause long enough for Dean to say 'no' in the first place. He's had a lot of practice at this and he's good at it, much better at it than their dad who always takes Dean's protests as proof positive that his son is such a good hunter he can take care of anything on his own, including broken fingers, concussion and much worse.

Instead of answering Sam's question, Dean says, "We can't stay here long. That locked door won't hold those assholes forever. I'm sure they must have some way to communicate with the other two. They'll be out here looking for us soon."

"That might work to our advantage." Sam digs out two bottled waters and a handful of energy bars, opens one of the bottles and hands it to Dean along with a couple of the snacks.

Taking a long swig of water that drains half the bottle, Dean hums contentedly and sinks onto his side, head propped up on an elbow. "What're you thinking, Sammy?"

"From this location we have a decent view of the building and the clearing." Sam pauses in his analysis to greedily swallow mouthful after mouthful of cool, sweet water, parched throat working steadily until he has to stop to take a breath.

"Yeah, I was doing some surveillance from here before I went in to save your sorry hide." Dean closes his eyes, rolls further onto his back, shifts to find a position that doesn't put pressure on the myriad bruises, gashes, and bumps on his head. It takes a while.

A wrinkle appears between Sam's eyebrows as worry surges through him. In the months since they've been back on the road together and in all the years before Stanford, he's never known his older brother to be this passive in the middle of a hunt unless he's seriously injured and many times not even then. It just goes to show how really rotten Dean feels.

Sam unwraps two energy bars and pushes one of the bars into Dean's unimpaired hand. "Eat." He commands, ignores the one eyed glare Dean manages to level at him, waits until Dean has taken a bite, and continues their conversation. "So, we'll see them coming long before they get here and we can get the drop on them. They'll never expect us to stop this close to the clearing. They probably think we want to get as far away from here as possible."

"That's a great plan and all, wonder boy, but it's not like they're going to step into the forest, see us standing here, and surrender. How do you propose we get the drop on them?"

"I haven't gotten that far yet." Sam admits while blissfully chewing on a large bite of what must surely be ambrosia. The energy bar tastes like heaven and he closes his eyes to better savor the carob covered protein. God, when was the last time he had eaten anything? "We need to list our assets, then we can see what we have to work with."

"List our assets? You mean like my charm and brilliant good looks and your powers of persuasion and uber geekiness?" Dean grins, immensely impressed with himself.

"Yup and don't forget your awesome sense of humor." Sam deadpans. Hey, at least his comedian of a brother hadn't decided to add Sam's freaky death visions to their list of assets. That's something to be thankful for as he's still sensitive about the subject and isn't really ready to start making fun of them just yet. "Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of the element of surprise, familiarity with the immediate terrain, stuff like that, but you know, you're right, your charm will most definitely be a huge asset in this situation."

The core of anxiety wriggling around in the pit of his stomach eases up a fraction. Dean's cracking jokes which means he isn't as bad off as Sam had worried he was. Of course, Dean also knows Sam better than anyone else has ever known him, knows how to smooth out ruffled feathers, calm the ripples of his agitation, almost as well as he knows how to push his buttons. Dean's just being Dean. It doesn't really have much of anything to do with how ill he is or how good their odds of finishing up this hunt and getting back to civilization are, but somehow, Sam still feels better. And that's the whole point isn't it? Good deflection you sneaky jerk. Sam snorts quietly and shakes his head while grinning back at his older brother and best friend.

"Well, we have weapons; guns and knives. Those should go on our list of assets." Dean stuffs the rest of the energy bar into his mouth and his mood becomes more serious as he stares thoughtfully up through the canopy of leaves overhead.

"Yeah, but no matter how much they act like monsters, they aren't…monsters, I mean. We can't kill them. We have to find a way to put them out of commission, ambush them and tie them up maybe. Then we can alert the authorities once we're long gone." Talk of the drug cartel hillbillies has Sam pushing up and craning his neck around a tree for a better view of the compound. No one is in sight, but the action triggers a spasm through his calf muscle and he grimaces with the reminder that his leg is going to need attention soon. Right, time to administer some first aid.

Dean's eyes drift to half mast and Sam thinks he may be about to fall asleep or pass out when he softly drawls, "Sometimes it can't be helped, Sammy. Sometimes it's kill or be killed…them or us. I'll do what I have to do to make sure it's not us."

_Not you._ Sam hears as plainly as if the words had been spoken out loud.

"We aren't murderers, Dean. Neither of us." For some reason it seems important to make this point, as though the events with the shape shifter in St. Louis still loom over them. In many ways they do. The sketch of Dean's face plastered all over the TV news, labeled a killer, will make hospital visits difficult at best, not to mention the whole legally dead thing. The entire situation will most likely haunt them both for the rest of their lives in one way or another.

"Maybe not, but there's such a thing as self defense, even in your precious law books." Dean sounds resigned, despairing even, and Sam hopes it's just the pain and exhaustion he hears because those things can be overcome relatively easily. The idea that his larger-than-life brother might be ready to give up is unthinkable and sends icy fingers ghosting along his flesh.

Standing over both backpacks, Sam pulls out one item after another. "Did we bring any first aid supplies with us?"

"Nope, we ran out of room in the packs. I left the first aid kit in the car. Thought it would be close enough." The loud exhalation that bursts from Dean's bloodless lips could be either the sound of amusement or dismay.

"Well, shit." Sam looks at the contents of the backpacks, now arranged in piles nearby. The rope and the holy water are the only useful items he sees, so the remaining gear gets repacked. "I wish we had some painkillers to give you before I reset those fingers."

Dean's heavy-lidded gaze skitters to him and away again. "I've had worse."

They don't have any medical tape for wrapping Dean's fingers, so they'll have to be innovative. Sam quickly removes his over shirt and his t-shirt. The warm, muggy air feels thick and moist against his skin, like he's moving through pea soup. Using his knife, he slices his t-shirt into long, thin strips, not stopping until the entire shirt has been reduced to a mound of cloth ribbons of varying widths ranging from one to four inches. He replaces his over shirt, selects a handful of the thinnest strips, and approaches his brother warily. This is going to hurt a lot and it sucks big time, but it's got to be done.

Without looking, Dean holds his twisted, bloody hand out, breaths deeply through his nose. "Just make it fast, Sam." His voice is deep and gravelly from the stress.

It's grisly. This is his first close look at Dean's hand. He wants to puke. The two broken fingers are not only bent at all the wrong angles, swollen like plump sausages, dried blood caking the digits, but there's also the unfortunate hint of cracked bone and ripped tendons peaking through the torn skin. Sam fights back his gag reflex. The absolute last thing Dean needs right now is to see or hear Sam react to the ghastly sight.

"You want a warning?"

"No…do it…just do it…no warning." Dean's panting, words coming out in choppy bursts.

Gripping Dean's lower arm and turning his back so Dean can't see what's happening, Sam breathes deep and slow, wishing that by doing so he could project calm and serenity into his brother's hunched frame. On an exhale he wraps his hand around Dean's index finger and squeezes as gently as he can while pulling firmly to straighten it out. He curls his upper body protectively over his brother's jerking hand when Dean groans through clenched teeth, his other fist slamming repeatedly onto the leaf strewn ground.

"Almost done, c'mon man, breathe through it." Sam pauses only long enough to croon quietly, his heart hammering double time against his ribcage

The middle finger looks to be more dislocated than broken. The joint clicks into place with a soggy sounding pop as Sam applies the proper amount of pressure at just the right angle. Fuck, no matter how many times he guides crushed bones into their sockets, he gets the same bitter take of bile at the back of his throat.

Dean's gone still and silent behind him. One look at slack features tells him all he needs to know. His brother's out for the count and that'll make this next part easier for both of them. Sam uses the cotton cloth to bind the two broken fingers and the undamaged ring finger together, continuing to layer strand after stand of cloth until Dean's hand looks like a paper mache project gone awry.

Head injuries bleed a lot and Dean's are no exception to this rule. Wetting one of the larger strips of shredded t-shirt, Sam wipes dried blood off his brother's face and angles his head so he can inspect the wounds there. There's not a lot he can do about them other than to note that yes, indeed there are two huge lacerations complete with golf ball sized knots, one still seeping blood and a clear thinner fluid. Dean will never put up with walking around in bandages resembling a turban on his head, so Sam has to satisfy his urge to coddle his brother by cleaning the area around the split skin as much as possible.

He knows it might seem crazy to other people, this mother hen complex he has when it comes to Dean, but the thing is…Dean won't take care of himself, has no instinct for self-preservation, refuses to act in his own best interests. There are few enough people allowed anywhere near Dean when he's sick and of those people even fewer who are willing to face his wrath at being taken care of – god forbid. Only one actually. So Sam bears the brunt of the rejection and the sarcasm as the price he has to pay to make sure that someone is there to catch Dean when he falls.

"Whatcha doin', Sam?" Dean blinks sluggishly, roused by the cool water pressed into his scalp. He pushes up to sitting uncertainly.

"Your hand is set and bandaged. I could use some help with my leg after all." Sam breathes an internal sigh of relief as he sits and positions his leg beside Dean's good hand, passing him the flask of holy water. Dean passing out twice in one hour is concerning, but there's no point in making a big deal over it until they have the overall situation under control. Besides, Dean usually feels better when he's doing something productive and cleaning Sam's gashes out is both useful and relatively easy, giving Dean a chance to work his way up to the big stuff yet to come.

Dean scowls at his bandaged hand, rubs the other over his face. "What the hell, Sam."

"Sorry, man. I might have gone a little overboard." Sam offers a rueful smile.

Confusion splashes across Dean's face as he looks at his mummy-wrapped hand to the flask of holy water where it lays next to his knee and then to Sam's leg. Sam waits patiently for his brother's concussed brain to catch up with their predicament and whereabouts, slightly unnerved by the lost expression.

Dean starts off slow, gaining speed and purpose along the way. Holy water trickles from the flask onto Sam's leg moments later. He's unprepared for the frothing, bubbling, hissing effect of the blessed liquid reacting to the supernaturally inflicted claw marks. It burns like molten lava. In sudden agony, Sam throws his head back, a scream wrenched from his throat. A hand traps the scream inside him and he opens his eyes wide in shock, Dean's hand securely wrapped around his mouth.

"Shhhh, don't want to give our position away."

Nodding his agreement, Sam chokes off the yell. Once the dried blood and some of the scabbing has been cleaned away, the wound appears raw and angry. The skin surrounding the jagged furrows is puffy, mottled red and white.

"Brace yourself, Sammy. You know I need to pour more holy water on that. Can't stop 'till it doesn't froth any more."

Whether it's because he's ready for it this time or because the reaction isn't as strong, Sam is able to suffer through the rest of the cleansing in relative silence, and if a whimper or two escapes his clenched teeth, neither he nor Dean comment on it.

Dean ties the remaining makeshift bandages around Sam's lower leg. All the cloth strips are gone by the time the gashes have been completely covered.

Sam lets his mind wander as Dean finishes wrapping his leg. The way back to the Impala is going to be arduous. He's not even such how long it took them to get here or from which direction they came. There are no paths leading to this spot. Looking out at the dense forest makes him wonder how Dean found him after the blink Bear spirited him away.

"Dean, how did you know where to find me after the Blink Bear attack? I could have sworn it stung you right before it got me."

"Yeah, it did." Dean hesitates. "Huh, I think that's why I found you."

"What do you mean?"

"Well…there's a lot we don't know about the properties of Blink Bear venom, right? Even the yahoos that summoned the beast are still trying to figure out what exactly it does and how someone behaves while stoned on it." Dean quirks an eyebrow, waiting for confirmation.

"Yeah, so? What happened to you?" A sneaking suspicion enters his mind, but Sam wants to hear Dean say it.

"I saw you...after the sonofabitch stung me…I saw you in the cave clear as if I was standing right next to you. I saw the way to get to the cave. Everything was so realistic. After I injected the antidote, I didn't have any other clues, so I followed the directions from memory and found the cave, just where I thought it would be."

"Same thing happened to me." Sam elaborates. "When they took me into the basement and you were still in the room, knocked out after the fight. I saw you unconscious and your head was bleeding."

"We should update dad's journal, add freaky visions of loved ones in peril to the list of Blink Bear venom side effects." Dean's eyes crinkle in amusement.

"Awww, you called me a loved one." Sam grins when his brother flips him off and marvels at their ability to yank each other's chains in the middle of hellish circumstances. He wonders how bad it would have to get before they were unable to have fun together and hopes he never finds out.

Thoughts of hellish circumstances bring Sam back to their plans for taking care of the Blink Bear's creators. They've been here for long enough and Sam's afraid they may be running out of time to prepare for the next show down. Steeling another glance at the plain white walls and windowless sides of the building at the other side of the clearing, he sees two men enter the front door.

"Shit, they're gonna be coming this way soon. What's the plan?" Sam groans at the pain that flares from his leg when he accidentally puts too much weight on it upon standing.

Dean gives him an appraising look, but accepts his hand and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. The muscles in his throat contract and he swallows convulsively, eyes closed and Sam knows its will power alone keeping his brother upright.

"We work off your plan, keep an eye on the compound and when they come after us we blend into the forest, trail them until they get lazy or the terrain offers us the advantage, ambush them and take them out of the equation." Waving the pistol in the air between them, Dean adds, "Deadly force only if necessary."

It's about as much of a plan as they ever have.

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Three of the men had come into the wood searching for them, Gideon, Daniel, and Effriam. True to the plan, Sam and Dean had disappeared into the foliage, camouflaged in their dark, neutral colored clothing, melting into the shadows cast by tall trees. Thinking that their quarry had a large head start, the three men had crashed past to the north of them like a stampede of clumsy buffalo, intent only on catching up, heedless of the finer arts of tracking.

Now, the two hunters can fall back on finely honed instinct and a lifetime of learned skills. Injuries and disabling pain take a back seat to the more pressing concerns of remaining undetected, doing their job. It's second nature to find ways to work around the need to walk without putting much weight on his shredded leg and still keep pace with the men ahead of them. The same holds true for Dean who is surely fighting through nausea and dizziness and never slowing down or taking a break. The three hillbillies have inadvertently become the prey and are astonishingly unaware.

Effriam and Gideon come to a stand still, arguing loudly about which direction they should take. Daniel runs a hand through his blond, buzz cut hair. He's looking up at what little sky is visible beyond the swaying branches.

"Frank'll be startin' the ritual soon. Think we should head on back ta help'em?" Daniel asks.

Effriam considers the question briefly. "Naw, they got it covered. Our orders are ta bring them two trouble makers back and that's just what we're gonna do if Gideon would listen ta reason."

Gideon apparently wants to search the previous Blink Bear's cave while Effriam wants to continue up the mountain. Their argument provides the perfect distraction and the thick tree cover allows the hunters to stay concealed until they can reach out and grab the guns clutched haphazardly by the back woodsmen. It's nothing at all to disarm Effriam and Gideon, laughable really. Daniel puts up more of a fight, but in the end they subdue him almost casually by knocking his legs out from under him.

Sam ties the men up and Dean pats them down, taking anything he thinks might prove useful. The key card to the front door, found in Gideon's shirt pocket, makes him crow in delight.

"Dude, this is fucking perfect. I was wondering how we were going to disable the security." Dean purposefully provokes the tied and helpless men.

"You'll be walkin' straight into the claws of our newest watch dog and protector ifn' ya go back now." Gideon rises to the bait and turns red in the face from his struggles against the rope tying his hands and legs together like a hog-tied calf.

"Yeah, I heard you mention that earlier. I thought you had to wait for sundown." Sam speaks as nonchalantly as he can. He's getting sick and tired of this never ending hunt. Another Blink Bear on top of the seven hillbilly dwarfs - big dwarfs, but still there's seven of them, so it fits - seems unfair. It's too much. He hates to use the word 'unfair' when describing his life anymore, but fuck yes, this is getting to be ridiculous.

"What with you two on the loose, Adam chose ta perform the ritual early. Frank was against it, said the ritual was unreliable at any other time, but it weren't his call ta make."

Sam and Dean share an 'oh shit' look and turn as one to retrace their steps to the compound and the site of the ritual which by now could have gone horribly wrong. Cries from the trussed up men behind them are ignored in their haste to put an end to the disaster waiting to happen - if they're lucky - or to clean up a huge fucking mess - if they're not.

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Dean's running, or trotting, whatever, in a somewhat straight line, as straight as he can anyway, and Sam is keeping up pretty good using a rolling, hopping gait that only puts pressure on his clawed-up leg for a fraction of a second. When one of them stumbles or falls behind, the other lends a hand or urges him forward. They've always been excellent at working together as a team, a seamless unit, filling in each other's weak spots, one half of a whole.

The pain simmers and sizzles on the back burner of his consciousness, always there, always ready to flare to life if he gives it the opportunity. He keeps it tamped down, like barbeque coals that have been burning for a long time and have reached the point where they're ash white on top, red hot underneath and you can't see how hot they are unless you disturb them with a piece of kindling and the flames jump and spark.

His vision is so cloudy after the exertion of running all the way to the compound that it feels as though he's trying to see through a vast column of smoke. He has to blink a lot and squint. He doesn't even realize he's doing it until Sam asks him if he has something in his eye.

"Smoke gets in my eyes, Sammy." He says and knows it makes no sense, makes him sound a tiny bit delirious.

Leaning a shoulder against the door, he catches his breath for a moment then fits the key card into its slot. An electronic whirring sound and a metallic snick tell them the door is unlocked.

The door to the basement is wide open, inviting them in. Dean thinks of every horror movie he's ever seen, thinks 'don't go into the basement by yourself, dipshit', but he's not alone, Sam's with him, so it's okay. He wonders why his thoughts are all over the place. Oh yeah, concussion.

All the florescent lights are off, a flickering glow comes from the alter room. Multiple voices chant words he can only guess at, the rhythms teasingly familiar even though the meaning escapes him. A cloying mixture of herbs and burning candle wax hangs heavy in the air. Spellwork. Incantations. It's unmistakable. The good news is they appear to have made it in time. No raging Blink Bear…yet. The bad news is they still have four homicidal hillbillies to deal with, a ritual to stop, and a long ass trek back to civilization, or at least back to the car where the pain meds are waiting for him.

At a flick of Dean's wrist, Sam nods, points his gun up at the ceiling, and darts to the opposite side of the alter room doorframe, surprisingly agile for someone with a torn up shin. From his position concealed next to the partially open door, Dean catches a glimpse inside the alter room. Only Frank is within his field of vision, but he can hear all four of the remaining back country hicks chanting, the foreign words sound weird spoken in a hillbilly twang. Frank's expression is…disturbing. It's the best description Dean can think of. The man's eyes are red rimmed and staring, his mouth forms the strange words precisely, artificially exaggerating the pronunciation, robotically. It's as if Frank isn't in control of his own body.

In the middle of the room, nestled on top of a pile of pine needles, is a large copper bowl. Small balls of sparkling light float above the bowl, about a dozen of them. They each move independently of the others, forming intricate patterns as they swirl and dip in the air. Dean can't take his eyes off them, because instantly he _knows_ what they are.

"Twinkly lights. Dude, it's your twinkly lights." Dean mouths at Sam and points inside the room.

Since Sam can't see into the room without being seen himself, he frowns at Dean, clearly indicating that he has no idea what his brother could possibly be referring to. 'Twinkly lights? Why bring that up now? So not the time, man.'

Sam must think he's kidding, teasing him about his stint with the venom, but this isn't a joking matter. Those god damn things are real, not something imagined in Sam's venom induced daze and more than that, they're living, cognizant beings, he's almost sure of it.

It's time to put a stop to this ritual before it goes any further. Dean cocks his head and holds up three fingers, pantomiming 'on three…one…two…three'. The young hunters spring into the alter room.

"Hey!" Dean shouts, attempting to break the concentration of the chanting men.

Instead of stopping the chanters speed up. More twinkly lights rise from the copper bowl and soon they're erupting out of it like a volcano, thousands of them, tens of thousands. They move together then apart forming one shape only to break formation moments later. It's mesmerizing. Dean watches as they coalesce and take the form of a Blink Bear. They hold the shape for mere seconds and then are off again, careening in all directions. They're beautiful and horrifying at the same time.

"Oh my god." Sam intones.

The words jar Dean out of his trance. "We have to stop the spell! Move, Sam!"

Spells can usually be stopped in one of three ways; destroy the alter, stop the spellcaster from speaking the words of the incantation, in this case the chanting, or destroy the item of power being used to give the spell its potency.

Of those three options, destroying the alter seems like the easiest and the fastest. Sam reaches the alter first and sweeps his arm along the top of it, dislodging an array of herbs, animal bones, and ceremonial implements. Everything clatters to the cement floor. Dean squats down, shoves his shoulder under the alter and heaves. The mahogany table is fucking heavy, but it topples onto its side when Sam joins in the effort.

Unfortunately, the twinkly lights are unaffected other than that they appear much angrier than before. Their sedate dance becomes a frenzied churning like a hive of hornets after being poked with a stick. The four men chanting the spell are still rooted in place, eyes wide and unseeing.

Sam sprints to the closest man, Benjamin. Grabbing the man by both arms, he starts shaking him and yelling in his face. Dean uses a slightly different approach with Adam, bulldozing into the man, knocking him to the ground.

The angry buzzing gets louder. At a signal Dean can neither hear nor see, the entire swarm of twinkly lights dive bomb Frank. Why they pick Frank to attack first is beyond him. Maybe because Frank started the spell or maybe it's just random coincidence, whatever their reason, the twinkly lights attach themselves in clumps to his legs, face, torso, until he's covered from head to foot in a seething mass of sparkling bits of light.

Frank collapses in a heap, extremities twitching. He stops chanting to cry out a mindless babble of 'no, stop, please'. Even though his face is hidden in the swarm, Dean can imagine the paroxysm of pain and he can't just stand by and watch the suffering no matter how much he hates the man and how much Frank might deserve this fate, does deserve this fate.

Guns and knives are useless weapons against these flashing specks. Dean remembers trying to protect the family in Oasis Plains, Oklahoma from the horde of bugs invading the new housing division. They had been trapped in the attic while bees and every other manner of insect attacked. He remembers shielding the family with his own body, his jacket, and this is kind of the same scenario, so he removes his jacket, advancing on Frank and the twinkly lights cautiously, wary of being stung or worse.

The stream of pleas stops and Frank is still moving, but the twitching has subsided to the occasional jerk of a limb here and there. Holding the jacket in front of him, like a matador baiting a bull, Dean steps into Frank's space and flaps the jacket into the swarm of twinkly lights. "Shoo." He commands, as though he's talking to an errant bumble bee.

Surprisingly, the tiny bits of light flicker away, revealing what's left of Frank. The man's clothes cover a desiccated husk. Frank has been reduced to an empty shell in a matter of seconds.

Then Sam is standing beside him, having given up on reaching the hillbillies through their spell induced catatonia. Indicating the twinkly lights, Sam says, "I'll try to ward them off. You look for the hex bag or whatever they're using to fuel the spell."

The item of power would be a hex bag if these were witches. What would these lords of the marijuana field use to focus their energy? Dean surveys the room, catalogs the symbols drawn on the walls, the scattered assortment of spell ingredients on the floor near the overturned alter, the copper bowl in the middle of it all.

He decides to start with the spell ingredients, retrieves the water-proof matches from his pocket, scoops it all into a pile, and lights one of the matches. Most of the ingredients are highly flammable, dried branches and even some of the smaller bones make good kindling. Soon there's a crackling blaze burning away. Dean adds the larger bones, a silver ring, a packet of powder. Surely one of the items will do the trick.

"Dean, hurry."

The cry draws his attention back to Sam. His brother has his jacket off, waving it at the twinkly lights now attached to Caleb. He's having no affect on them at all and every once in a while one of the malignant lights separates from the horde to latch onto Sam's arms or face. When this happens, Sam swats at the light and it disappears, leaving a welt where it had been affixed.

Dean jumps over the already decimated body of Benjamin to stand shoulder to shoulder next to Sam. The twinkly lights finish up with Caleb and hover over Adam, unfazed by the two hunter's efforts to deter them.

There are two lights attached to the back of Sam's leg where the jeans are cut away and the skin exposed. Dean doesn't know how long they've been there or whether Sam can feel them, but his stomach lurches uneasily at the sight. He brushes them off with his bandaged hand. The small patch of skin underneath is black and dry, devoid of any moisture.

"Sam, back up, get out of here!"

"No, you have to find their source and destroy it." Sam grits, obstinate as ever, and wipes his sweat streaked face on a shirt sleeve. "I'm not giving up."

He could argue the point that Adam's not worth risking their lives for. He could knock his brother out and physically drag his stubborn ass from the building. It's much easier to simply comply and that's what Dean ends up doing.

Upon closer inspection, the copper bowl holds a collection of marijuana buds, of course, a couple of vanilla beans, and a spice that smells like cinnamon. Dean can only imagine what a college student might concoct given these ingredients. He gathers the bowl and the pine needles under it into his arms, carries the lot over to the fire he'd set earlier, and dumps it all in. The only thing left in the room to burn is the alter. Hopefully it won't come to that.

As the copper begins to soften from the heat, Sam grunts, falling to his knees. The dry, brittle husk next to him is all that remains of Adam. There are at least five twinkly lights on Sam's face, another ten or so on each hand. Dean expects his brother to swat them away, crush them into nothing as he has been doing. Instead, Sam moans something inarticulate and crumples forward, quickly overwhelmed by the sheer number of lights attempting to drain the moisture from his body.

"Sam!" Dean throws himself on top of Sam, shielding him as best he can and flicking away the sparkly little shits whenever possible. One of the twinkly lights lands on Dean's neck and he feels the sharp needle prick under his hair line, feels the skin become tight and hard. He continues to squash the balls of light flat each time the leaches attach themselves to his brother until he notices that there are fewer of them flying nearby. He watches as several of them wink out like fireflies dousing their light, then more and more of them disappear. Finally none are left. Dean looks into the dying fire and sees a misshapen lump among the ashes where the copper bowl used to be.

Relief wells up inside him only to be chased away immediately by stark, cold fear. Sam's not moving.

"Come on, Sam. Don't you do this to me." Dean rolls his brother onto his back, presses two fingers into his neck at the pulse point, finds a weak thrumming, and for a moment he's so grateful all he can do is sit there, clutching Sam's shirt in his unwrapped hand.

The room is doing a slow waltz, spinning and sliding. Any performance enhancing boost he achieved from the adrenalin coursing through him is now fading and he feels as though he's moving in slow motion, his body on a five second delay.

He needs to get Sam some help, but there's no way they can make the two plus day trek through the forest to their car. If Sam was awake he could tell Dean what to do and he really needs Sam to be awake because thinking is out of the question right now.

Water would be good. There must be water around here someplace. After all, the compound should be stocked with everything that seven men need to survive for however long they go in between supply runs. Along those same lines, there should be food and medical supplies here too. All he has to do is find them.

"Stay here. I'll be right back." Dean lurches to his feet, nearly loses his balance then steadies himself with a hand on the wall.

He finds a storage room down one of the halls on the ground level. It's all there, bottled water, dry goods, pain killers – some of the good stuff too, and antibiotics. He has to make several trips to bring down everything he thinks they'll need. By the time he's done, the muscle tremors are back with a vengeance and he only just makes it to Sam's side towing a carton of peanut butter crackers and a fully stocked first aid kit before his legs give out.

The way he figures it, Sam's biggest problem right now has got to be dehydration. Dark patches of dry skin mar his face, arms and legs, everywhere not protected by clothing. There are even some spots under his shirt where ambitious twinkly lights must have wriggled underneath. The loss of fluids is particularly evident in the skin around his eyes which is bruised and sunken.

"You have to drink this. Open up, Sammy." Dean unscrews the cap on one of the water bottles with his teeth. Patiently, he dribbles small amounts into Sam's open mouth, pausing for each swallow. A lot of the water ends up running down Sam's chin and neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt from a combination of Dean's shaking hand and Sam's annoying habit of allowing the water to leak from the corners of his mouth. However, enough goes down his throat to alleviate some of the bruising under his eyes. "Atta boy, you're doing good."

Dean even thinks the scaly, dry patches of skin may have shrunk. He's willing to admit that might just be his imagination or wishful thinking though. A little creativity with the medication pays off when he manages to get Sam to swallow a capful of water with pulverized antibiotic and Vicodin tablets dissolved in it.

As soon as Sam's taken care of, everything catches up to Dean. He's tired, really fucking tired, can't keep his eyes open another second tired. It's no use trying to fight it any longer. Resting a hand on Sam's chest so he'll know if his brother wakes up, at least that's the idea, Dean sinks into oblivion.

When he comes to there's a gentle hand on his shoulder. His eyes flutter open to find Sam gazing worriedly down at him. There's a weightless, floating thing going on, the kind that usually happens when he's on strong pain medication.

"Dude, did you give me some of the Vicodin?" He attempts a stern look, but he's pretty sure it comes off more confused.

"Yeah, I did." Sam answers in the tone that always means, 'what are you going to do about it?' like he's expecting an argument.

"Thanks." Dean sighs, taking the wind right out of his little brother's sails. "You, okay?"

"Yup, I'm okay. You did good." A genuine smile lights Sam's face before he gets a mischievous glint in his eye. "I'm just sorry I didn't get my hug when you passed out this time."

"Sam, believe me, you do not want to go there." Dean warns. "Or I'm gonna start calling you My Little Pony and telling everyone you're my pet."

Sam snorts. "You know about My Little Pony? Dude, that's even more embarrassing."

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Epilogue

They spend two more days recuperating at the ranch with all the comforts of home. As soon as they're mobile they graduate from the basement to a couple of rooms on the ground floor. It takes them another two days hike through the forest to reach the Impala.

When they pass the area where they had left the three bound woodsmen, the men are gone. They aren't particularly surprised, with enough motivation, those ropes wouldn't have been all that hard to get out of.

The symptoms from Dean's concussion subside to a dull ache once he gets some rest. He has his fingers properly splinted at a clinic in Cosby.

Sam needs a little more recovery time. The infection from the gashes on his leg responds nicely to the antibiotics, but he still runs a low grade fever for days afterwards. Eventually all the marks on his skin where the twinkly lights sucked his juices out of him rehydrate and the dead skin flakes off, leaving pink, new skin underneath.

When they leave Cosby, Tennessee it's on a sunny day after days and days of rain.

The End

**A/N: As Chuck the Prophet of the 'Lord' (LOL) so eloquently put it: Endings are hard. I have found that to be true for both of the multi chapter fics! I have completed (this one being the second). Beginnings are so much easier. I hope you enjoyed my story which has now come to its end. Please leave a review before you exit. They brighten my days and keep me going until the next time. Thank you dear readers!**


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